


Off the Ropes

by abundantlyqueer



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-04
Updated: 2008-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:57:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 60
Words: 99,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/pseuds/abundantlyqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>parts 48-51 of "Off the Ropes" have not been posted yet. I couldn't get the juice going for this story for a while, and hopefully this will jump start me again. I'll go back and do the missing parts before I go on any further; there's nothing in those chapters that relates to Karl and Orli, so you're not missing anything with regard to this strand of the story. This takes place the night before the fight. You can find links to all the previous parts <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/maidazia/189523.html#cutid1">here</a>, thanks to <a href="http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=maidazia"><img/></a><a href="http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=maidazia"><strong>maidazia</strong></a>.</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 1 (this part DM/EW, NC-17).** _

  


Dom wakes sometime around noon, gray daylight spilling around the sides of the too-narrow tweed curtains of his bedroom. He heaves the heap of dark-blue cotton covered duvet off his chest and onto the other side of the bed, and scratches languidly at the fuzz of sandy brown hair on his breast bone.

There's a muffled sound of complaint from under the doubled duvet and pile of pillows beside him, and Dom smiles slyly.

"Mornin' sweetheart," he says, stretching lazily.

" – even fuckin' breathe," Elijah complains blurrily as he emerges tousled and heavy-eyed, and kicks the covers clear down to the end of the bed.

Dom rolls over, taking only a second to admire the contrast between Elijah's sleep-pale skin and the dark sheet before covering Elijah's naked body with his own.

"You're up early," Elijah says dryly, though he doesn't resist when Dom knees his legs further apart and settles between his thighs.

"You're irresistible," Dom counters, mouthing softly down the side of Elijah's neck until he feels the tension in Elijah's body fall away.

"I bet you say that to all the boys," Elijah murmurs as Dom nudges him to lift one leg and bend it close to his chest.

"Yeah, but I mean it when I say it to you," Dom smiles against Elijah's ear, pushing his thumb into Elijah's arse, smearing around the mess of lube and spunk still evident from last night's fuck.

"My – prince," Elijah hitches as Dom shifts and pushes the head of his rigid cock slowly and smoothly into Elijah's arse hole. Elijah whimpers and his fingers tighten down on Dom's faintly freckled shoulders as Dom settles down against him, his balls snug against the warmth of Elijah's behind.

Dom puts an end to the smart-arse chitchat by leaning in hard and smothering Elijah's parted lips with his own. Dom pushes his tongue slickly into Elijah's mouth, mimicking the movement of his cock in and out of Elijah's arse. Elijah makes muffled little sounds in the base of his throat and hooks one heel around Dom's hip, digging into Dom's arse cheek as if to urge him on.

Elijah's fingers leave Dom's shoulders and twist into the dirty blond fall of Dom's hair instead, winding the lank strands into a tight grip. Dom growls into Elijah's mouth, shoving more roughly into Elijah's arse.

"Fuck – God – yeah," Elijah gasps, abruptly breaking free of Dom's kiss. "Deeper. Harder."

Dom grits his teeth and tugs Elijah's heel off his hip, pushing Elijah's leg straight up until Elijah's knee is almost hooked over Dom's shoulder and Elijah's arse is lifted clear off the mattress.

"Oh God, Dom," Elijah cries as Dom circles his hips, churning his cock inside Elijah's arse.

"Yeah baby, I fuckin' hear yeh," Dom pants, surging up onto his knees and scooping Elijah's other leg up too, over his other shoulder.

Elijah grimaces, half-stifling and half-sounding breathless little whines of pleasure. Dom arches his spine and juts his hips upwards with every thrust, ensuring he's pressing into the front wall of Elijah's gut, making Elijah squirm and shudder.

"Dom – oh God Dom – I fuckin' love you so much," Elijah sobs raggedly, taking hold of his own cock, squeezing and massaging the thickly heavy flesh.

"I know baby," Dom says, shaking his head sharply to swing the sweat-limp strands of his hair out of his eyes.

Elijah's arse tightens around Dom's cock, and Dom feels the spangle of his orgasm start in the arches of his feet and shoot up the tendons of his legs and twist his balls and shoot out his fucking cock in big delicious spurts, two, three, four … the sensation finally dropping away into a shivering relaxed blur. Dom pulls out of Elijah as soon as he can gather the wit to do it, and scoots back onto his hands and knees, sucking Elijah's half-erection into his mouth before Elijah has time to realize what's happening.

Elijah arches, his cock swelling so fast in Dom's mouth that Dom almost gags.

"Dom – Dom?" Elijah cries, clawing at Dom's hair and the sheet under him and his own nipples.

Dom makes a pleased interrogative noise in his throat that makes Elijah thrash even harder.

"Dom – fuck – FUCK!"

Elijah whiplashes, shooting salt-clean spunk into Dom's throat and screaming jaggedly.

"Dom, Dom," he begs feverishly, grabbing Dom and dragging him back up into his arms, licking sweat off Dom's eyebrows and upper lip. "I love you, I love you."

"I hear yeh," Dom smiles, biting into Elijah's flushed and swollen lips one more time.

Dom lies around for a while afterwards, watching Elijah smoke and talk on his cell-phone. He has a cuppa tea and a slice of buttered toast while he reads the sports page. He showers, doesn't shave, and pulls his second best suit on over a crumpled shirt.

"I'm goin' down to the gym – yeh wanna come with?" he asks from the doorway of the bedroom. Elijah's back on the bed, still naked, reading a CD insert, and if it wasn't for the demands of business Dom'd just as soon crawl back on there with him and fuck him some more. Kid's got an arse like fuckin' champagne.

"No thanks, I'm meeting Liv for coffee later," Elijah says mildly. "Tell Astin I said 'hi' though."

"Will do. Tell Liv I said she should wear a bra."

"Will do."

Cut.


	2. AU "Off the Ropes" Part 2. (PG-13)

_**AU "Off the Ropes" Part 2. (PG-13)** _

This part DM/EW, DM/OB, and SA/DW all referred to. Rated for language.

"Daisy, don't dance with'im," Astin says as he circles the boxing ring, water bottle in hand and towel slung over his shoulder. "If he's lookin' for a kick in the ass, let'im goddamn have it."

David flicks an eye of acknowledgement at Astin; in that split second, Orli comes at David with a two-punch combination and a kick aimed at David's left hip. David blocks both punches and tries to grab Orli by the ankle, but Orli's already twisting away and squaring up again, bouncing lightly on his toes.

Orli comes at David again with exactly the same attack, and that's unexpected enough that David fluffs the block on the second punch just a fraction, and Orli lands the kick this time. David staggers under the impact but manages to get a good grip on Orli's ankle and twists hard, trying to throw Orli down. Orli's ready for that, though, and wrenches his body in the same direction David's trying to pitch him. Their combined momentum's enough to let Orli flip sideways and land on both feet. He bounces lightly back out of David's range.

"Chuck fuckin' Norris," Dom crows from the doorway. He moves forward toward the ring.

Orli touches one red-gloved hand to his protective headgear in greeting, then snaps the same hand straight out in a jab that almost connects with David's face. Astin turns to Dom.

"He looks fuckin' fantastic," Dom grins. "What's he weigh?"

"Hundred and fifty-one," Astin says solemnly.

"Only four more pounds to go? That's brilliant!"

"One fifty-five's what he needs to get into this fight," Sean says. "Not what he needs to win it."

Dom makes a dismissive little "phbbttt" sound.

There's a harsh grunt and the wetly explosive sound of a bare heel smacking hard across flesh; Dom and Astin whip their heads up just in time to see David reel and stumble, while Orli dances out of range, both fists held loosely under his chin. David shakes his head, trying to knock himself back into focus, but before he can really rally, Orli twists round and delivers a low roundhouse kick that wipes David off his feet and sends him crashing to the canvas.

"Orli that's enough," Astin says firmly, climbing between the ropes and leaning over David, who's on his hands and knees snuffling blood. "Go talk to yer manager."

Orli bounces back to his own corner of the ring, grinning madly. He pulls his head gear off, spits out his mouth guard, unlaces his gloves and pulls them off using his teeth, and drops his equipment in his corner. He grabs the upper ring-rope with his bandaged hands, hitches one foot onto the bottom rope, and leans forward into a slow, controlled head-over-heels that unfolds him out the ring and deposits him lightly in front of Dom.

"Gimme a second man," Orli says. "I need to piss. Then we can talk while I shower off."

"Yeah," Dom says, his smile growing even more lopsided than usual.

Orli strips his tank off over his head and shoves it at Dom. Dom accepts the sweat-heavy garment, along with an eyeful of olive-gold skin and the complication of braided muscles woven down the left side of Orli's ribcage. Dom's head turns of its own accord to follow Orli's cruise to the locker-room.

"How's Elijah?" Astin asks dryly, yanking Orli's shirt out of Dom's hands and pitching it towards the plastic towel bin.

"He's good, he's great," Dom says airily, half-turning on his heel towards Astin. "Oh yeah, he said to tell you he said 'hi'."

"Is he going to classes?"

"Not so much."

"And you're okay with that?"

"Hey, I'm not his bleedin' mum. Whatever he wants to do."

"You're spending Elijah's allowance checks on Orli; you don't think you owe him a little concern in exchange?"

"Hey, I fuckin' care about Lij. And I'll pay every fuckin' penny of that money back when Orli beats Urban."

"You don't deserve that kid," Astin says tightly. "And – Orli's a hell of a fighter, I wouldn't spend my _unpaid_ time on him if I didn't think so – and he's not a bad guy, but he's not worth hurting Elijah for."

"Look, I appreciate your concern for Elijah being a fellow Yank an'all," Dom says. "But you need to butt out of his private life. I'm Orli's manager; you're Orli's coach. As long as Orli's happy, things should be just cool between us."

He pivots on his heel and walks off toward the locker room.

David, leaning on the ring ropes above and behind Astin, takes the ice-bag off his nose.

"You ever pull that crap with me an' I'll kill you," he says conversationally.

"Daisy Mae, I ever pull that crap with you an' I'll kill myself," Sean returns.

Cut.


	3. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 3 (this part DM/OB, NC-17).

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 3 (this part DM/OB, NC-17).** _

A/N: Forgot to say this is all happening in London.

"Off the Ropes" Part 3

3: Orlando

There's a transistor radio playing tinny pop music somewhere in the locker room. Dom thumps the side of his fist on the door of every other locker as he walks past and turns the corner into the deadend of lockers and benches used by Astin's more serious students.

"So that's what twenty grand looks like on the hoof," Dom says, seeing Orli standing in front of his open locker, naked from head to foot except for the tape on his hands. "Very fuckin' nice."

Orli twists to face Dom more directly, lying up against the locker next to his own, pushing his hips forward in shameless display.

"One fifty-one looks good on you," Dom goes on, his gaze taking a slow tour over Orli's body. His brow furrows in sudden concern. "You don't think the extra weight's slowin' you down do you?"

"No worries," Orli smiles, idling his hips from side to side a little. "I feel fan-fuckin-tastic. It's like I've separated from my body, yeah? Like I can order my body to do _anything_ and it will obey me. Yeah it takes more power to get airborne, but every pound I gain gets me ten pounds of strength. I can still fuckin' _fly_ , boss."

Dom, without even realizing he's doing it, reaches out and runs his palm down Orli's side from armpit to hipbone.

"You are one beautiful fuckin' animal," he says reverently.

Orli snorts in amusement, but Dom's admiration is deeper and more sincere than even Dom could ever explain.

Dom's career as a gambler started with teen-aged betting on horses. It wasn't about the money, or at least not just the money. It was the animals themselves, sleek and shining and arrogant in their strength. Dom knew all the bloodlines and the form for the last three seasons, but that was just so that he could bet off-track if he had to. The real thing was to be there, to hang open-mouthed over the fence of the parade ring and watch the horses skitter and sidle, muscles thick as Dom's entire thigh twitching under their satin coats. They were gorgeous animals, unassailable in their beauty. Even the foam of spittle dripping from their mouths and the acrid streams of piss and the extravagant arch of their tails as they shat without so much as breaking stride all seemed magnificent in their carelessness.

Orli stands up again and snags something out of his locker and pushes it at Dom. Dom's already accepted it before he realizes it's the bottle of lube.

"Come on," Orli smirks. "Before Astin comes in and gets all bent outta shape about us fuckin' in his gym again."

Orli turns his back on Dom and spread-eagles himself against the closed lockers, his white-taped hands knuckled against the scratched and dented metal, his head low between his extended arms, his long back stretched out almost horizontally, and his legs spread wide.

Dom shrugs his suit jacket and slings it on the bench. He wrestles his trousers open and his shorts down, spreads lube over his palm and nudges in close behind Orli. At the first touch of Orli's smooth and scorching skin, Dom wishes there was something _beyond_ fucking, something rich and rare and precious he could do for Orli that would show Orli how incredible Dom thinks he is. Dom can't think of anything, though, so he settles for expressing his admiration in the usual fashion.

Dom's cock is so hot and hard that circling his lube-chilled hand around the head feels agonizingly good. Dom pushes his fingers between the taut cheeks of Orli's arse and finds everything plush with sweat already. Orli presses his shoulders even lower, the muscles of his back springing into even higher relief. Dom wraps his hand around the shaft of his erection and puts the tip tight against Orli's arse hole.

"Stay still," Orli says, and Dom stops breathing.

Orli pushes back, increasing the pressure until it's enough to force the head of Dom's cock into Orli's arse, and wring a groan of pained delight from Dom. Orli keeps pushing; there's a wipe of friction and heat so intense that Dom sees it as a red haze behind his eyes. Another few seconds and Dom's three-quarters buried in Orli.

"Fuck, that's a fucking lot," Orli pants, the muscles of his shoulders trembling under his skin. "Gently man, okay?"

Dom nods at once, and then realizes Orli can't see that anyway.

"Yeah, okay," Dom says, taking careful hold of Orli's hipbones.

Dom pulls out a little, pushes in again, working as smoothly as he can despite the erratic clutch and reluctant release of Orli's internal muscles.

"Jesus," Dom says shakily after a minute, "you're so fuckin' tight I can hardly move."

"It's okay, it's good, it's really fuckin' good," Orli grinds. "It hurts just fuckin' right, y'know?"

Dom tries to swallow his frantically hammering heart down into his chest again. It's not like it is with Elijah. With Elijah, Dom likes to look, likes to see his cock or his fingers or his toys sliding in and out of Elijah's little arse. Elijah's soft and silky and sugar-sweet.

Orli's vise-tight, velvety, and Dom's never quite sure he'll survive. Dom never looks. The sensations are overwhelming even without visuals; besides, Dom's already blinded by the way the hair curls around the tops of Orli's ears, and the cold fluorescent light blurs soft on the rhythmically moving crests Orli's shoulder blades.

Things are smoothing out a little – Dom leaking precum and Orli relaxing into things a little more – and Dom's able to pull almost all the way out and plunge all the way back in without completely frying his brain. Orli cautiously tips his arse forward and back, introducing jagged little cross-currents of feeling. He shifts smoothly, supporting himself on one hand instead of two, and Dom growls at the mental image of Orli's white-taped hand against the dark red flush of Orli's thick cock.

Having taken the edge off with Elijah earlier, Dom's finding it easier to last with Orli. Orli's jerking himself hard; Dom can tell by the rhythmic hitch and fall of Orli's right shoulder. Orli's making quick wet sounds, thumb and forefinger circled around his foreskin and sliding it on his own slick. His arse starts to twitch and tighten around Dom.

"Yeah come on," Orli mutters. "Fuckin' come on, fuckin' _come_."

Dom shoves hard enough to make Orli cry out, a sharp little sound that covers shock and satisfaction. His whole body jerks under the impact of Dom's thrust, beads of sweat scattering from his dark curls. The locker row shakes a little, metal joints creaking under the strain.

"So fuckin' beautiful, so fuckin' perfect," Dom says over and over.

"Oh fuck FUCK," Orli grimaces and Dom feels the push and pulse and flutter deep up inside Orli's arse and Orli's body pulls tight as a bow and Dom's nostrils flare at the salt-sharp low tide smell of spunk. Then Orli's body opens up and it's a smooth easy slide and Dom pumps hard, pumps fast, and Orli's gasping for air and squirming on Dom's cock and Dom comes, the spasms not the sweet stabbing of his morning orgasm, but slow and profound, leaving him shaken and stunned. Dom manages to pull himself out of Orli's arse, though their skins seem to want to cling together.

Orli twists round, letting himself collapse back against the lockers for support. Dom just gulps down mouthfuls of air. Orli yanks a couple of clean towels out of his locker, throwing one to Dom and wiping his face with the other.

"Cheers man," he says breathlessly when he emerges from the folds of cloth again. "I really fuckin' needed that."

"No problem," Dom manages, unfolding against the opposite row of lockers. "Whatever you need, I get it for you. I'm your fuckin' manager. Right?"

Cut.


	4. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 4

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 4** _

This part DM/BB and DM/EW referred to. Rated for language.

A/N: I've rewritten ["3: Orlando."](http://www.livejournal.com/users/abundantlyqueer/30280.html#cutid1), as I wasn't happy with it. The general 'plot' is the same - Dom and Orli have locker-room sex, but the dynamic between them is a little different and I'm much happier with the writing.

But here's 

  
The black and brass sign over the door reads "William Boyd, licensed Book Maker," while the red neon in the window amends "Boyd's Betting Shop, no stake too big or too small."

"Aw, you've gotta be kidding me man," Sala says in pained disbelief when he sees Dom. "You know I can't take so much as two quid on the Housewives' Choice from you."

"Relax. I'm lookin' for Billy."

"He's not here," Sala says too quickly.

"Upstairs? Don't bother, I'll show myself the way."

"No, Dom, I mean it," Sala says more firmly, shifting a sufficient amount of his bulk into Dom's path to bring Dom to a halt. "You don't do business here anymore."

Dom looks Sala up and down, fingers the lapel of Sala's dark blue suit jacket.

"Nice threads," Dom remarks. "Cost a bit, I bet."

"Ye're not getting' round me Dom," Sala says sullenly.

"Payin' you extra to run interference with his exes, is he?" Dom asks.

"Aw man," Sala almost howls. "That's not a fair argument, you _know_ I just got back with Loni."

"Yeah, how 'bout that?" Dom grins. "You guys were off for – what? Two years? Y'know, Billy and me, we're just about the two year mark too. Guess anything could happen. If we, like, saw each other or something."

"He's gonna kill me," Sala pleads.

"Yeah. Sorry about that," Dom says, patting the blue-gabardine cliff-front of Sala's chest sympathetically.

Cut.

"Ah'm gonna fuckin' kill 'im," Billy says, pushing his chair back from his desk irritably.

"Yeah, poor schmuck," Dom shrugs, parking one hip on the edge of the desk. "He's in love; he's not thinking clearly."

"Aye. I remember how that goes," Billy says darkly.

"Yeah," Dom says, letting his gaze drift to Billy's face and linger there, waiting from an answering softening in Billy's expression, but it doesn't arrive.

"Yeh're not here to discuss Sala's romantic life. An' Ah doubt yeh're here to pay me the six grand yeh owe me in gamblin' debts, are yeh?" Billy asks.

"Not exactly," Dom admits. "Thing is Bills, I need a favor – but I'm in a position to pay. Or, at least, I will be."

"Yeh need – a favor," Billy says, his voice suddenly brittle.

"Yeah. See, thing is, I'm having a bit of a cash-flow thing at the moment and - "

"Don't bother wi' the censored version," Billy cuts in. "Yeh're into McKellen for twenty grand, I already know."

"Oh."

"Jesus Dom, what were yeh thinking, takin' his money? If yeh're trying to get yerself killed, yeh're goin' the right way about it. Ah don't understand yeh anymore; it's like everything good yeh get yeh throw away with both hands."

Dom scowls. The truth is, he asks himself the same question often, in the long reaches of the night, with Elijah's small body curled confidingly next to his. Dom's not gonna admit that to Billy of all people, though.

"Point _is_ ," Dom says tightly, "I'm in a position to win big on the MMA welterweight fight."

"Yeh won't get any kind of odds on Urban, no matter who declares to fight him. He's unbeatable this year."

"I'm not betting on Urban, I'm betting against him," Dom announces, savoring the way Billy's eyes widen and his prim little mouth drops open.

"Yeh - "

"I've got the guy to go up against him," Dom goes on, his eyes glittering with excitement. "Fucking incredible – like fucking Bruce Lee with a sugar rush. He's never fought in the league, nobody even fucking knows this guy. He's like the fucking stealth bomber or something. Bookies'll give twenty, fifty, a _hundred_ to one on this guy right now."

"Oh aye, yeh'll get great odds," Billy says dryly. "What are yeh gonna use for a stake? Yer underwear?"

Dom has the decency to look slightly shame-faced.

"I've got – I can get – I can borrow about twenty-five hundred."

"Twenty-five hundred," Billy echoes, nodding sagely.

"Yeah, the guy I'm shacked up with, his parents're gonna send - "

"Yer boyfriend," Billy says flatly. "Yer boyfriend who's young enough to have parents sending him money."

Dom doesn't even bother.

"Dom, did Ah, in the course of our relationship, ever manage to convey to you what a complete an' utter bastard yeh are?"

"You mentioned it once or twice," Dom grits.

Billy makes a dismissive sweep of his hand.

"Yeh try to put twenty-five hundred on an unknown against Urban and any bookie alive's gonna know yeh're in on something."

"Yeah, so the money needs to be split up into small amounts – fifties, hundreds, and scattered round the place. Nowhere that specializes in MMA. I figure after taxes I can count on a hundred grand for sure. The fight purse is another twenty thousand, but that'll go direct to my boxer."

Billy nods thoughtfully, and Dom feels such a swell of hope that he shuts up for a few seconds.

"Of course," he says when the silence goes on long enough to itch, "I can't do it. Every off-form bookmaker between here and fuckin' Gretna Green's wise to me. I need someone to place the bets and collect the take - someone I can trust."

Billy tips his head, looking at Dom with a kind of sharp-edged wonder.

"An' yeh're askin' me," he breathes.

"I cut you in for ten percent, plus the money I already owe you. Day's work for you, tops."

"No," Billy says very carefully, as if he's afraid Dom may not get the nuances of the pronunciation.

"Billy, come on, I'm in a bind here."

"No."

"Jesus! I thought I was supposed to be the petty one!" Dom snaps. "I can't believe you're using this to get back at me."

"Yeh arrogant fuckin' cunt. This has nothin' to do wi' you an' me," Billy says, taking hold of the edge of his desk as if to hold himself down into his chair. "This has to do wi' yer bein' a bad fuckin' customer. There's a wee detail yeh're ignoring, which is that yeh're putting a rank fuckin' amateur up against Karl Urban. Yer _not_ gonna collect a penny, yer boxer's gonna get killed, yeh're gonna get killed, an' Ah don' feel like fuckin' helpin'! So, no."

"You can't say no," Dom insists.

"Yes Ah can," Billy says. "No. Oh look, Ah did it again."

"Bills - "

"Shop's closed Dom. Closed two fuckin' years ago. Pull the door on yer way out an' don' fuckin' come back."

Cut.


	5. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 5 (this part hints of DM/VM).

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 5 (this part hints of DM/VM).** _

  


  
It takes only minutes for Dom's indefatigable sense of optimism to kick in. Okay, so Billy's crapped out on Dom right at the moment when Dom could really use his help, but, fuck it. There's lots more where Billy Boyd came from. Dom shakes off his momentary despair over a double whisky and a cigarette in the pub across the street from Boyd's Betting Shop. Take the rest of the evening off, Dom figures, and by tomorrow morning he'll have come up with another idea. A better idea.

Dom exhales a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth and stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray, slipping the pack back into his jacket pocket. It's a filthy habit he's half picked up from Elijah, always taking a drag from Elijah's post-fuck smoke just to be companionable.

Dom gets up from the bar and goes into the telephone booth next to the gents' toilet. He thumbs coins into the slot, dials home. The phone on other end rings out, switches over to voicemail; Dom hangs up before the recording picks up. He presses the 'dial another number' option before the phone has a chance to spew his money back out, then stands with the receiver humming against his throat, trying to decide who to call.

Cut.

Dom has taken some time in the gents to wash his face and comb his hair, to smooth his shirt collar and tuck in his shirt-tails, and to put on the tie he always carries around rolled up in his inside pocket. So when he lopes up the front steps of the Clarence Hotel and flashes a megawatt smile at the doorman, Dom's looking reasonably sharp and feeling like he's at the top of his game.

Dom strides across the plush foyer and into the lounge. There's a nice balance of occupied and unoccupied seats, and the level of conversation provides just enough counterpoint to the tinkle of the piano in the far corner. Dom spots Viggo right away, sitting alone in one of two armchairs drawn up to a low table. Dom weaves his way among the other islands of tables and chairs; he's halfway there when Viggo glances up and sees him approaching.

Viggo gets to his feet. Dom can't help but smile in sly appreciation of the way Viggo's black jacket and soft white cotton shirt hang on Viggo's lean frame. Viggo's wearing blue jeans and sneakers, but the overall effect is somehow elegant and even authoritative.

"Dominic," Viggo says quietly, extending his hand in greeting.

"Vig, man, it's good to see you again," Dom answers, grasping Viggo's hand firmly and simultaneously squeezing Viggo's right shoulder.

When they release each other, Dom beckons to the lounge boy idling at the bar. Viggo settles back in his chair; Dom unbuttons his jacket and sits too.

"Scotch, no ice," Dom murmurs to the lounge boy, then glances questioningly at Viggo.

"Brandy."

Dom reaches for his wallet, but Viggo puts his hand out.

"Please, let me. I can write it off as a research expense."

Dom shrugs, smiles, tucks his wallet back into place.

"So how ye'been?" Dom asks, hitching to one side in his armchair, getting comfortably sprawled with one arm draped on the chair back, one foot stretched out under the table, and the other propped on his opposite thigh. He hooks his hand around the ankle of his boot, fingers spread gracefully against the black leather, and lets his head fall up and back at an inquisitive angle.

"Good. Busy," Viggo answers, his pale blue gaze lingering speculatively along the lines of Dom's pose. "End of year. Academically, I mean. One forgets the whole world doesn't count from September to May."

Dom exhales polite amusement.

There's a pause while the drinks arrive and Viggo pays.

"Cheers," Dom grins, lifting his glass and taking a sip. He makes a point of letting the spirit lie on his tongue, his eyes flickering closed as he savors the slow burn.

"What about you?" Viggo asks when Dom finally swallows and runs the tip of his tongue across his lower lip to collect up the last gloss of the liquid. "Business good?"

"Business is fuckin' excellent," Dom says a slow smile. He draws his cigarette packet and his lighter out of his jacket pocket. He takes his time, turning the packet over in his fingers, thumbing the lid up, lifting the entire packet to his mouth and using his barely parted lips to extract a single smoke. "Got some stuff I need to set up, but I'm looking to have a major payday pretty soon."

"Then I'm doubly grateful that you've made the time to talk to me again," Viggo says. He slips his hand into his jacket pocket, pauses. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all," Dom says, finally applying a flame to his smoke and taking a long deep first drag.

Viggo produces a microcassette recorder, presses the switch, and sets it on the low table between them.

"I'm only flattered someone thinks my life is interesting enough to make a whole fuckin' book out of it," Dom says. It's clear from his tone that he means someone _other_ than himself.

"It's the whole culture," Viggo says, his voice low but intense. "Gambling. Horses, dogs, fighters. Animals and men in gladiatorial competition, expending sweat and blood … worshipping and challenging the god of Luck. You're part of a human tradition that stretches back to the roots of our mythic past."

Dom exhales smoke from his open mouth, scratches the side of his chin with the thumb of the hand holding his cigarette, and quirks his eyebrow disparagingly, as if he'd like to shrug off Viggo's adoration except that it's absolutely justified.

"That a common school of thought in your line of work?" he asks.

Viggo laughs.

"I'm afraid not. Generally my colleagues like to keep the myths they study safely shut up in books."

"So what do you want me to tell you about this time?" Dom asks, taking up his glass in the same hand as his cigarette.

There's a beat while Viggo's gaze doesn't quite meet Dom's.

"I had a chance to check out a tape of some MMA fights. It was – intense. More intense than I expected."

"You need to be there mate," Dom says over the rim of his glass. "Telly doesn't begin to do it justice."

"I want to know … how it feels to send a man into the ring for a fight like that. How it feels to have a man receive and inflict that kind of pain on your say-so."

"It's not my say so," Dom smirks. "It's a twenty-thousand quid fight purse that's making him do it. Besides, Orli was fuckin' born and built for this fight."

"Tell me about that then," Viggo says solemnly.

Cut.

Four whiskies later, Dom's slouched in his armchair, glass in one hand, the fingers of the other hand idling in his own hair. He sits with his legs splayed wide, hips tilted just enough to push his half-hard cock against the smooth gray fabric of his suit pants.

"I'm not saying it happens all the time," Dom smiles slyly. "I'm just sayin', this game's full of very physical fuckin' guys. Guys who like a thrill, like to blow off a little steam, y'know? Managers, trainers, fighters … we're all high on it, blood, sweat, bodies."

Viggo's staring at Dom's mouth like he can only understand Dom's words by watching the shapes they make.

"Including you?" he asks hoarsely.

"Very much including me," Dom grins. "I mean, why not? It's a fuck between two guys. Why make a big deal out of it?"

Viggo's shoulders are working a little, as if he's having to struggle for oxygen. His line of sight seems to have become irreparably caught on Dom's loosened tie and opened shirt collar, on the triangle of tenderly pulsing skin exposed at the base of Dom's throat.

Dom unconsciously calculates odds from the glitter in Viggo's eyes and the flush high up on Viggo's cheekbones. Very very nearly, but not quite. Dom has to fight the urge to laugh.

Cut.


	6. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 6 (back to DM/EW NC-17!)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 6 (back to DM/EW NC-17!)** _

  


The flat's still empty when Dom gets back a little after midnight. He toys with the idea of making tea, even gets as far as filling the kettle and rinsing out a mug, but in the end he just opens a beer. He wanders into the bedroom, shedding his suit jacket and tie and boots, and lies down among the heaped bedclothes. He left the hotel in the pleasant honey-smooth state that precedes sleepy-drunk, but the taxi-ride home and the touch of night-chill outside the house started to put sharp edges on things again. Dom's still half-riled from baiting Viggo. He shifts his hips experimentally, wondering if it's worth the effort of wanking.

He hears them clomping up the stairs and laughing, hears the fumble and giggle and eventual raspy turn of Elijah's key in the lock. He hears the door creak swiftly open amid another outburst of laughter.

"Ssh, shhh," Elijah says loudly enough to be heard across Liv's semi-hysterical cackle. "You'll wake the cat."

"You don't have a cat."

"Ah – fuck it," Elijah laughs.

There's a sound like a scuffle and then some determined banging around of dishes in the kitchen. Dom, grinning, gets up from the bed and carries his beer back out.

"Hey kiddies," he drawls, setting his shoulder against the doorway of the kitchen, since there really isn't room for all three of them in there.

"Dom," Elijah says at once, his eyes lighting up with sheer delight. "I didn't know you were back."

He comes to Dom, wrapping his arms around Dom's waist and letting Dom give him a half-hug with the arm and hand that aren't occupied by the beer.

Over the top of Elijah's dark head, Dom looks at Liv. She's wearing a dress with big spiky black and white and red flowers on it, made out of some thin material that clings to every long shallow curve of her body. It's been pretty much guys only for Dom ever since he moved down to London, but, God, he'd be willing to make a exception for her. Course, he'd have to put a fucking bag over her head first, because the scowl on her face would curdle milk.

"Hard day at the office, dear?" she asks archly.

"Hard as a fuckin' rock," Dom smiles, and his cock twitches obligingly.

Liv sniffs, and switches her attention to Elijah.

"I better go, angel pop, they're not paying me to look like crap."

"No tea?" Elijah asks mournfully, half-turning out of Dom's embrace to look at her.

"No tea. It's disgusting swill that only the British could drink."

Elijah disengages fully from Dom to give Liv a hug of her own.

"Okay. Sleep well."

"Goodnight honey bee. Think about what I said, okay? And promise you'll call me next week," Liv says severely.

"Yeah."

" _Promise_."

"I promise."

"Okay," Liv says, grudgingly satisfied. She lets Elijah go, and slithers past Dom still standing in the doorway.

"G'night Liv," Dom smirks.

"Fuckin' idiot," Liv mutters.

Dom waits until he hears the front door slam before parking his beer and moving toward Elijah, who's back to trying to muster a mug and a spoon and a teabag despite being gigglingly drunk.

"Hey, 'angel pop'," Dom growls into Elijah's ear, cornering him against the countertop and holding him in place by the hips.

Elijah squirms deliciously, and Dom's annoyance at Liv evaporates like spilt vodka.

"You guys have fun?" Dom asks, easing his crotch slowly up and down against Elijah's hipbone, sliding his hands slowly up and down Elijah's ribs, under the edge of his tee shirt.

"Yeah, it was – oh - _fuck_ ," Elijah breathes, as Dom's hands wander further up and find Elijah's nipples.

"You're pretty fuckin' drunk man," Dom smirks, pulling Elijah's shirt off entirely.

Elijah lets his head fall back, eyes half-closed, lips half-open, his spine arched and his narrow chest stretched taut.

"Pretty fucking drunk man," he echoes, heaving his hips helpfully as Dom pulls his jeans open and pulls them down around Elijah's knees along with Elijah's boxers. "I'm pretty and fucking and drunk and a man. Hey, wait, where's the fucking?"

"Right here," Dom soothes, turning Elijah around and pushing him stomach first against the edge of the counter.

Elijah hums a pleased little sound.

Dom gets his own trousers open, then looks around ferociously for something to use as lube. Elijah insists on keeping the butter in the fridge, because he's a crazy fucking Yank. A palmful of cooking oil will have to do.

"Spread," Dom says, and Elijah snorts with laughter, curling in on himself as if to cuddle the giggles shaking his body.

Dom smiles too, then his smile slides into something more engrossed as he works his fingers slowly between the cheeks of Elijah's arse. Dom's fingers slide luxuriously on warm skin, forwards to Elijah's balls, back to his hole. Round and very slowly round, and very slowly in, three fingers pressed tight together, thick enough to drive a shuddering groan of appreciation out of Elijah.

Dom works his hand backwards and forwards, eyes devouring the slow grind of Elijah's pale behind, the preciously obscene sight of Elijah's arse hole engulfing Dom's shining fingers.

"You want me to fuck you?" Dom asks breathlessly.

Elijah doesn't answer in words, just makes a desperate little keening noise and shoves back so hard that the lower knuckles of Dom's hand push in past the entrance. Dom puts his other hand flat and firm on the small of Elijah's back and holds him in place as he withdraws his fingers. Elijah jerks with annoyance.

"Hitch up," Dom says, pulling his cock out of his underwear. "Fuckin' short arse."

Elijah has another outburst of giggles and pulls himself onto his elbows on the countertop, the toe-tips of his sneakers barely grazing the floor. Dom wraps one arm around Elijah's waist, lifting him a little further, while with the other hand he tries to guide the head of his cock to Elijah's hole. It's a little tricky; Elijah's small but he's dense, and Dom's only got one arm to support him, and Elijah's giggling and wriggling like a worm on a –

\- hook.

Elijah cries out as Dom's cock slides home in one sweet hot smooth rush. Dom hastily overcomes the danger of having his knees just fucking fold under him, and gets both arms around Elijah to support his weight properly. Even before Dom starts pumping, Elijah's scratching and clawing at the countertop, and breathing in broken little jerks that tell Dom the kid's very fucking close all ready.

Sweet fucking ride. Elijah's got the weight of his upper body on his elbows, and Dom's supporting his pelvis, but his feet are dangling at about the level of Dom's ankles. Elijah's got no traction and no leverage, so the only contribution he can make to the situation is breathy cries of appreciation. Dom kinda likes that, likes tightening his arms around Elijah's soft waist and pumping himself hard into Elijah's soft arse while Elijah hangs helpless in his grip.

Elijah starts yowling like a tomcat, and Dom realizes it's because, in this position, no one can spare a hand for Elijah's cock. The heels of Elijah's sneakers start scraping at Dom's shins. Elijah's arse starts twitching around the head of Dom's cock. Dom glances up long enough to see the whip-fine muscles of Elijah's shoulders standing up clean and proud under his white skin, and Elijah's hands clenched white-knuckled on the back of the countertop.

"You're gonna come," Dom says, his voice all twisted up. "You're not even being touched and you're gonna fucking come, aren't you?"

"No, no," Elijah sobs, kicking his toes against the cabinet doors and scrabbling his stubby fingernails on the counter. "I can't - "

And then he does, throws his head back and fucking _screams_ , and Dom thinks, Jesus, the neighbors are gonna call the fucking cops on us one of these days. Elijah's entire body, inside and out, shudders over and over again, Elijah choking and gasping and thrashing so hard he almost pulls himself off Dom's cock.

Dom knows it's gonna take a bit to get himself off, what with the whisky and the other two fucks he's had today. He gathers Elijah up again, not easy to do since Elijah's now a panting sweating dead weight, and starts to fuck him as hard and fast as he can, just loading the sensation up on his somewhat stunned nerves.

Elijah makes small sounds of annoyance at first, but after a few seconds he starts to get into it, letting his head fall forward and pillow on his limp arms, just abandoning his already sated body to Dom and letting his breath out in short little grunts. Dom can feel it happening, feel the red knot tying itself up tight at the root of his cock. He tenses his arse, focuses on the way his cock looks sliding in and out of Elijah's unresisting hole … fucking … gorgeous …

It takes a second, takes the stuttering spasm a second to really establish itself, and then he's there, bliss, his body folding in on itself and pouring itself out into Elijah's already sodden flesh.

Elijah's body makes a lazy little contraction that spews Dom's softening cock back out. Dom drops his sweaty forehead onto Elijah's back and waits for the fire in his chest to die down a bit. Elijah hums, and Dom knows from the rise and fall of the tone that it's shorthand for 'I love you'. Dom straightens up shakily, and eases Elijah off the counter.

The second Dom lets go, Elijah crumples down the cabinet front onto his knees, and then further down into a heap. His eyes are closed and he's grinning like an idiot. The puddle of his own spunk on the floor soaks through the bunched up denim of his jeans and starts chilling his left shin. Dom hitches his own underwear and trousers up; ignoring the screech of protest from his thigh muscles, he crouches down next to Elijah.

"You broke me," Elijah complains, utterly replete with pleasure.

Dom grins and brushes some of the damp spikes of hair off Elijah's forehead.

"Come on kiddo," he says gently. "Bed."

"Did you have a nice day?" Elijah murmurs sleepily as Dom hauls him upright and gathers Elijah's shorts and jeans up enough to let Elijah walk.

"Yeah, it had its moments," Dom smiles.


	7. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 7 (this part SA/DW)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 7 (this part SA/DW)** _

  


David opens his eyes, and knows instantly what it is that woke him, despite the perfect stillness and darkness of his bedroom.

"Sean? I know you're awake," he says softly.

There's a pause, then Astin sighs and turns over to face him.

"How do you do that?" Astin asks, his face so close to David's that David can practically feel the vibration of Astin's voice inside his own chest.

"You smell different when you're anxious."

"That is both impressive and very disquieting," Astin answers, and David can hear his smile even if he can't see it.

"You wanna talk?"

Astin shrugs, which David feels as the slither of bedclothes against his own skin.

"What time is it?" David asks.

"Four fifteen," Astin answers without having to check.

David makes a sympathetic face, then realizes that's not conveying anything to Astin in the dark, so he rubs the knuckles of his left hand gently against the dense warm curve of some part of Astin's upper body.

"You need to relax baby," David croons. "You want me to come downstairs with you?"

"You don't have to. I can - "

Astin's already pushing the bedclothes back from himself, and shifting his weight away from David.

"Hey," David says, reaching out with both hands and catching hold of whatever bits of Astin he can find. "I like it too, y'know."

Cut.

This, Astin thinks, is gonna be really good. This is exactly what he needs.

David curves his right arm up in front of himself and extends his hand, his long fingers achingly graceful in their attitude, half-cupped, half-fanned out. Astin's squarer, stubbier fingers come up in mirror image, and the backs of their two hands meet, light as a kiss.

"Fight," David says evenly.

For a second they just maintain their positions at the center of the ring, each with his weight drawn back on his left foot, his right foot just toe-light on the floor, left hand fisted at waist level while the right describes the graceful bridge between them. Each man is barefoot and bare chested, wearing only loose cotton pants.

Abruptly Astin's right hand twists over David's, knocking David's arm down and out of the way. Astin's left fist snaps out in a punch aimed at David's stomach. David catches the blow in the palm of his left hand and shoves Astin off with a grunt.

"Why are you even doing this?" David asks, double stamping forward to close the space between them again, and snapping a knee to Astin's groin.

"Doing what?" Astin returns, turning to block David's knee with the outside of his thigh.

"Doing business with Dominic Monaghan. Guy's a dipshit," David says, bouncing back to avoid Astin's right hook. "He makes you get that tight thing around your mouth when you talk to him."

"He's just – so - stupid," Astin says forcefully, punctuating the words with a pair of straight punches that David deflects upwards with his forearms. "Elijah's an amazing young man and Dom's – just – wasting him."

"So, again: why?" David asks, shifting to the attack by catching Astin's last punch and yanking Astin in close enough to take a shin kick in the side.

"Because Orli really does have a chance at beating Karl," Astin says a little breathlessly, hooking his heel around David's ankle and knocking him off his feet.

David grabs Astin as he falls, and succeeds in pulling him down too. They roll apart instantly, each springing to his feet in the hopes of getting a split second jump on the other, but both pairs of feet hit the mat at the very same time.

"I don't have what it takes to give up a fighter like that," Astin finishes.

"Yeah, he's raw but he's fucking good," David admits, as they square up to each other again, fists raised and chins dipped.

"An' I've got a suspicion we haven't seen half of what he's got yet," Astin says. "Wait till he's in an all-out fight, going for blood."

"You could tell Elijah that his boyfriend's also fucking just about every other guy he knows," David suggests, then snaps out a double punch combination at Astin's face.

Astin ducks and suddenly flings himself at David's midsection.

"Hey! That's not - "

The rest of David's protest goes in the whoof of air that's knocked out of his lungs as he and Astin go down in a crashing heap. There's a few seconds of fierce grappling before David's able to heave Astin off him. They roll onto their feet again, lightening fast.

"That's not MMA," David says gleefully, wiping the back of his hand across his nose and mouth.

They leap at each other, neither attempting any kind of defense, both totally focused on inflicting damage. David knees Astin in the side, doubling Astin over, but Astin uses the momentum of his fold to drive his elbow into David's stomach. David doubles too but almost instantly comes back up, the heel of his hand catching the tip of Astin's chin and snapping Astin's head up and back. Astin lashes out with one foot, catching David on the back of the leg, breaking the lock on his knee. A well-placed elbow driven into the angle between David's neck and shoulder knocks him to his knees.

David throws himself forward, wrapping both arms around Astin's thighs and bearing him to the floor again.

"I _can't_ tell him," Astin grits, as they thrash at each other, each trying to wrap his legs around the other's torso. "It'll break his heart. Besides, I don't think it'd even help."

"You don't think Elijah would dump him if he knew what Dom was doing?" David pants, managing to get his knee firmly wedged in the middle of Astin's chest and shoving him off.

"Maybe. Maybe he'd move back to his dorm, go back to classes. Gget his life back together," Astin says, standing up and extending his hand to David. "But that's not gonna be an easy road, and Elijah doesn't seem like he's got much left in him."

"So what do you think he _would_ do?" David prompts, accepting Astin's hand, getting as far as one knee, and then using the connection between them to pitch Astin over his shoulder.

Astin hits the floor and head-over-heels up onto his feet and turns on David, who's back up too.

"Just drift on down," Astin replies, circling David and looking for an opportunity. "Take up with the next bum that comes by. Maybe someone worse than Dom. Someone who won't even bother to lie about it."

David lashes out with a spectacular roundhouse kick that Astin has to jerk back to avoid, and David follows with a flat sole-of-the-foot horse kick that catches Astin in the middle of the chest, knocks his breath explosively out of his lungs, lifts him off his feet and drops him on his back on the canvas. David steps over Astin, one foot on either side of Astin's ribcage, and drops his weight straight down. Astin grimaces as one hundred and seventy pounds of fighter lands on his stomach.

"Submit," David says.

"You wish."

"Come on baby, you're beat," David appeals.

Astin whiplashes savagely under him. David tries to recover but he's off balance, and Astin twists out sideways and hits David square in the face with his knee. They split, and spring onto their feet again.

David takes his fingers away from his nose, and howls at the streak of red he sees.

"The fuck man! That's twice in twenty-four hours!"

Astin chuckles, and starts to circle again.

"Face it, it's a big target," he laughs.

"Yeah I guess that's why you never get hit in the balls," David hoots.

"Daisy," Astin grins.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up an' fight!"


	8. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 8 (this part SB/KU NC-17)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 8 (this part SB/KU NC-17)** _

  


"One hundred an' eighty-three," Bean says, having adjusted the metal counterweight on the scales' slide to absolute perfection. "Eight pounds to go, an' exactly a month till fight day. Dead on."

"Yeah, great," Karl says ironically, stepping down from the scales. "Provided, of course, there's someone for me to fight, on fight day."

"You've got them runnin' scared," Bean answers with a low laugh. "They're thinking twice about gettin' in a ring with yeh, even for twenty thousand quid. I thought you'd be pleased about that."

Karl exhales sharply, as if clearing a bad smell from his nostrils. Bean nods towards the massage table.

"Hop up, let's take a look at the ankle."

Karl tucks in the towel slung around his waist more securely and boosts himself up.

"No opponent would mean you'd win by default," Bean muses, hunkering down to unwind the support bandage from around Karl's left heel and ankle.

"I'd rather fight for free than win twenty thousand pounds for doing nothing," Karl says grimly.

Bean grins and glances up at Karl.

"That's why they're afraid of yeh."

With the bandage off, Bean straightens up again, lifting Karl's heel in his palm. Gently Bean palpitates the bones and tendons of Karl's ankle, rotating and flexing the joint between his two hands.

"Feels smooth enough," he murmurs, almost entirely talking to himself.

"It _is_ ," Karl says impatiently. "It's fine. It's _been_ fine for a week now. Stop fussing over it."

"Oh yeah, it's funny now," Bean says, releasing him. "Wait till ye're my age, you'll wish I'd fussed over it another week or two."

"Yeah Coach, what was it like when you were a fighter? Back in the Stone Age?"

"Cheeky bugger," Bean scowls, flipping Karl's ear with the corner of the towel draped over Bean's right shoulder. "You're not too big to catch the back of my hand."

Karl makes a show of ducking away from the towel.

"Turn over," Bean says in mock annoyance, snagging a squirt bottle of colorless oil from the table.

Karl lies down on his stomach, pillowing his face in his folded arms.

Bean fills his palm with the colorless oil, relids the bottle one-handed, and streaks his hand down the shallow valley of Karl's spine. Bean goes to work on the thick triangles of muscles on either side of the place where Karl's neck joins his shoulders. Karl makes a blurry noise of pleasure against his forearm, and lets his eyes slide closed.

"Don' worry," Bean says. "Rhys-Davies didn't get rich promoting fights with only one boxer. He'll have an opponent, and a good one too. We better work on your cross-style training; there's no telling who or what he's going to throw at you."

"Mmhnn," Karl says.

Bean's got great hands – big wide palms and long, thickly-knuckled fingers, with flat round fingernails cut very close. His hands are incredibly strong; he can exert enough pressure on an unopened beer can to make the pull-tab blow out. His hands are strong enough to squeeze and press and penetrate the dense, tightly knotted muscles under Karl's velvet skin. Bean's big blunt fingertips work steadily to unravel the layers of tendons and sinews and muscles, and then smooth everything back into its proper alignment, leaving Karl feeling like a well-made bed, complete with hospital corners.

Bean's hands are hard, the palms heavily callused from years of weight-training without gloves or tapes. Under the silk-smooth slip of the warm oil, Karl can feel the rasp of Sean's skin. The friction brings the blood glowing right under Karl's skin. Karl grunts from deep down in his chest as Bean shifts to the slabs of muscle on either side of Karl's spine, leaning hard enough to drive the air rhythmically out of Karl's lungs.

"Feel all right?" Bean asks, circling both thumbs deep into the flesh around Karl's left shoulder blade.

"God … Almighty. Feels great," Karl moans.

Bean smiles, feeling Karl's body melting under his hands.

"Flip over."

Karl does so, stretching out on his back. Neither man remarks on the way the towel around Karl's hips tents impressively over Karl's otherwise unrestrained erection. Bean goes to work on Karl's right arm, skillfully disassembling and then restoring the bellied curves of deltoid and biceps and triceps, the long ropes of the forearms, and the thick cords of the wrist. Karl keeps his eyes closed, his head gradually tipping further and further back, lifting his chin and stretching the powerfully sinewed line of his throat.

When Bean digs his thumbs into the palm of Karl's hand, Karl groans and his entire body flexes deliberately.

"Sean?" Karl husks, not opening his eyes but rolling his head to one side until his flushed cheek is pressed against the table's surface.

"Yeah," Bean answers, his voice just a little grittier than usual.

He reaches for the towel around Karl's waist and pulls it loose, pulls it open, spreading the two sides out so that Karl's lying completely naked, his erection jerking minutely in time with his pulse.

Karl breathes harshly through his nose.

"Relax," Bean rasps quietly.

Karl exhales purposefully, and tries to compose himself. Bean reoils his hands and slides his splayed fingers smoothly up Karl's thighs, out and over Karl's groin, then works back down, his thumbs digging slow deep circles into Karl's tendons.

Karl's breath goes hectic again, and his hips roll restlessly under Bean's hands. His cock twitches, a thick fat pearl of precum collecting in the slit.

When Bean finally relents and wraps the fingers of one hand around Karl's cock, Karl bucks sharply just once, the long muscles of his thighs and abdomen quivering with excitement. Bean's touch is firm and sure and slow; he's done this for Karl often enough to know exactly how Karl likes this to go, how Karl likes to draw it out, give it time to really build.

Karl keeps his eyes closed, his lower lip pressed hard between his teeth, and his hands tightly clenched on the edges of the table. The muscles and tendons of his thighs jump into high relief as he struggles to keep still.

Bean unconsciously licks his lips, completely engrossed in the smooth pull twist stroke he knows is most effective in building and building the bright burning sensations that make Karl struggle not to squirm and snarl. There's a special satisfaction in this, proof that Bean knows every nuance of Karl's body, its wants and needs and reactions. What it takes to keep it soothed and strong.

Bean puts his free hand under Karl's balls, rolling and squeezing and pulling them softly. Karl breaks, his brow furrowed into a fierce frown, digging one heel into the table's surface and pumping his hips, driving his cock in and out of Bean's slick fist.

"Wait," Bean says, taking his hands away.

Karl snaps out a jagged sound of frustration, though this is exactly how he likes it. He drops back on the table, panting, and opens his eyes so he can look daggers at Bean. Bean nods as if in casual greeting.

"Sean … God it's - _good_ ," Karl manages, as Bean takes hold of him again and starts to stroke slowly again, building more quickly this time.

Karl can feel every single nerve fiber in his body light up red and –

"Shit!" Karl spits as Bean cuts him off again, leaving him trembling all over.

Bean waits until he can sense the urgency draining away again from Karl's body. This time he barely has to touch Karl and Karl's starting to gather and tense again.

"Don't stop," Karl growls. "Don't stop this time."

There's only one answer to that: Bean stops. Karl chokes, his body shaking madly. Bean waits, and waits. Only when Karl falls pliantly back on the table does he start again. It takes less a single stroke to make Karl thrash. This time Bean brings it as close to edge as he dares, feeling Karl's balls draw up firm and tight, and Karl's body turn rigid. It takes split second timing, but Bean's always been a remarkably agile and subtle fighter. When Bean feels the first ghost-twitch under his fingers, he closes his fingers around the base of Karl's cock, his grip firm but not tight, enough to slow but not stop Karl's climax. At the same instant, he squeezes Karl's balls quickly and lightly.

Karl's body turns itself inside out and Karl fucking _bellows_. His come spurts out in an epic curve, splatters over his own hip and the hem of Bean's ragged gray tee shirt. Bean keeps stroking, slower, slower … stop.

Karl stretches hard, appreciating the fading shake in his limbs and the way his heartbeat quickly reestablishes itself out of the general chaos of blood and breath and bone.

Bean flips the towel off his shoulder onto Karl's stomach, and retrieves a gray blanket from the back of a chair and unfolds it onto Karl's lower legs. Karl does a cursory clean up with the towel, which Bean then takes from him, and draws the blanket up over himself.

"Sleep it off for half an hour," Bean says quietly. "Then I want you on the treadmill for a couple of hours."

Karl's eyes are already closed; he shifts slightly onto his side.

"Thanks Coach," he murmurs.

"Half an hour," Bean repeats sternly.


	9. AU "Off the Ropes" Part 9

_**AU "Off the Ropes" Part 9** _

This part rated for language only.

"Off the Ropes" Part 9.

9: Cate.

Dom is woken a little after ten by the sound of someone knocking loudly on the front door of the flat. His stomach instinctively twists up in a knot. He rolls into a sit, dipping the mattress. Elijah, who always insists on having at least three large pillows and then sleeps flat, his head and shoulders and arms burrowed under his fluffy barricade, makes unintelligible noises of annoyance and pushes the lower half of his face out from under the pillows.

"Jesus Dom, it's the middle of the fucking night," he mumbles. "Just jack off like everybody else."

Dom smirks despite the cold lump of anxiety settling in the middle of his chest. Still, it can't be that bad. Anyone worth being really afraid of wouldn't knock, they'd just kick the door in.

"Monaghan?" Cate yells. "Open the fucking door you worthless piece of shit!"

Dom groans. So much for that theory.

He stumbles out of bed, dragging a pair of denims that might be Elijah's off the back of the bedroom door. Then he changes his mind and drops them; if Cate's gonna wake him at this ungodly hour, she's gonna have to take him as she finds him ... buck naked with a piss-proud half-erection.

"Yeah, yeah," he says loudly, scratching and snuffling and finally undoing the chain and turning the latch.

Cate shoves the door open with her shoulder, and Dom steps back smartly to save his toes and other vulnerable appendages.

"You smell like a whore," Cate says flatly, passing him with a glance whose firm indifference suggests she never expected to see him any other way than naked and half-hard.

"Compared to _you_ everyone smells like a whore," Dom says snidely.

Cate doesn't grace that with a response. She sweeps through to the sitting room, stepping over the slew of discarded clothes, assorted CD cases and magazines that litter the floor. She perches on the arm of the couch; the seat cushions are clearly the worse for Dom's various experiments with common domestic materials as substitute lubricants.

Despite Dom's spiraling sense of being in very deep shit indeed, he can't help but think that of all of Ian's employees Cate is definitely the one he's least horrified to see making a house call. For one thing, Cate's not the person Ian sends round to break your arms and legs. For another ... Liv's all dark hair and white skin and blow-job lips, like a tall female Elijah, with a sarcastic cow attitude tacked on. Cate ... Cate's another kind of creature all together.

Cate's a shark, sleek and slender in her closely fitted charcoal gray skirt suit. She moves with an effortlessly fluid grace, and when she's at rest, as now, her body is always tilted slightly forward, poised for motion. Her profanity and her occasional outbursts of blind temper don't detract from the overall impression of coldly serene cruelty. They're just the shark thrashing her tail, churning the water up a little.

Dom thinks about fucking her. Thinks about what it would take to break through that tough skin, get a little red in the ocean. Dom's cock nods enthusiastically. Dom revisits the no jeans decision.

Cate sighs, like she'd resigned herself to Dom's drift into mute priapism before she even got here.

"Let's do the short form of this," she says dryly. "I can see you have things to attend to. You owe Mister McKellen twenty thousand pounds ... he asked me to remind you about it."

Now it's Dom's turn to give no more answer than a snide curl of the top lip.

"When shall I tell him you'll be dropping it by?" Cate prods.

"I need another four weeks," Dom says, and the sick anxiety eating his stomach gets over-laid by a flutter of excitement. Four weeks until Urban's defense of his welterweight title. Four weeks until Orli beats the unholy shite outta Urban. Dom's gonna gather up the pay-off of his scattered bets and carry the whole damn lot over to Ian's. Let the old bastard see how small a dent his twenty-lousy-grand is gonna put in Dom's hundred-thousand-plus payday.

"Four weeks," Cate echoes, the corner of her mouth tightening just enough to suggest ironic amusement at Dom's audacity. "I'll tell Mister McKellen. Please don't miss that deadline. I'm sure you understand; he's forced to take some measures to ensure things run on schedule."

She doesn't belabor the point. She doesn't need too; this isn't the first time he's been on the receiving end of a threat over default of payment. Usually though, the sum's considerably smaller, and the threat's delivered by some fuck-ugly ape in an alleyway or a dark stairwell. Dom figures he must be reaching 'most preferred customer' status, to have Ian send his ice-princess round in person to apply the pressure.

"Yeah, I get it," he says, proud of how very fuck-you his voice sounds. "Four weeks and one day from today, Ian gets some out-of-towner - from Manchester, knowing Ian's sense of humor - to come down to London for the day. See the crown jewels, break every bone in my fuckin' body, catch an early show, and back home in time to put the cat out."

"Just so we understand each other. And Dom? I just want you to know, you're a pathetic excuse for a human being, and if I had my way you'd be dead in a sack right now."

For a few seconds Dom's left uncharacteristically speechless, not by the substance of her words, but by the almost trembling intensity of her hatred. When he does speak, all he can think to say is,

"Thanks."

Cut.

Dom closes the door behind her, and crosses to the window, twitching the ugly-ass floral curtain out of the way. Only after he sees her emerge from the house door, get into her shiny little sports-car, and pull away, does he give vent to his feelings.

"You fucking bitch!" he spits, smacking the heel of his hand hard against the window frame. "Cunt! Try getting yourself fucked once a decade and see if that improves your fucking attitude! Shit!"

Dom lashes out, swiping his hand along the shelf over the defunct fireplace, sending books and CDs and used coffee mugs and mostly empty beer bottles flying. One bottle gets knocked over and rolls but doesn't fall off the shelf. Dom grabs it up and pitches it at the wall, splattering a brown stain on the beige wallpaper and sending little shards of green glass all over the floor. Elijah, crouching naked on the carpet on just the other side of the closed bedroom door, flinches painfully.

Dom picks up the phone roughly enough to elicit a little ding of protest. He dials with equal violence, and fumes for the one ... two ... three rings it takes for the person on the other end to pick up.

"Billy? It's Dom - don't fuckin' hang up, I'm in real trouble here."

"Dom ... Ah already said no," Billy says, sounding slightly panicked.

"Jesus! Just - my fighter's trying out with Rhys-Davies day after tomorrow. They'll declare for the fight the next day; I _have_ to get my stake down before then, before the odds start to shorten. There's four weeks left until the fight, and if McKellen doesn't get his fucking money right after that, I'm dead Bills; I'm fucking dead."

"McKellen's never had anyone killed ... not on purpose," Billy says, his voice completely hollow.

"That's very fuckin' comforting," Dom hisses. "When I'm lying in the hospital and the only part of me that still moves is my fucking eyelids, I'll remember that and think, 'hey, at least I'm not fucking dead'. And if I am? At least I'll know it was an accident; they just kicked me in the head one time too fucking many."

"Ah can't Dom. Ah can't help yeh. Ah can't do this."

"Yes you fucking _can_ \- it's that you _won't_. You really hate me that much Bills? Did I hurt you so badly that you want to see me _dead_?

"Dom ... just don't."

"I don't have a _choice_ Billy. There's no one else. Elijah wouldn't know how to place a fiver each way on the Tipster's Pick. If he tries to negotiate an off-form bet on an undeclared fight, I'll be lucky if I get my stake back when Orli wins. There's no one else Bills."

"Maybe yeh should think about that Dom."

"I _have_ , I told you, there's no one."

"Ah didn't mean think of someone else to place yer bets. Ah meant, think about why the only person yeh can go to wi'this is yer ex-boyfriend."

"Y'know what Billy? Just fuck you. Don't worry your fuckin' head about it. But don't _ever_ look to me to do _anything_ for you Billy, _ever_. I wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire, y'bastard."

"Ah'm sorry Dom," Billy breathes, and before Dom can even get _started_ on that, the line clicks and Dom's left with the flat-line dial tone.

Cut.


	10. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 10. (This part OB/SB NC-17).

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 10. (This part OB/SB NC-17).** _

A/N: don't panic, Jacob is NOT an OMC; you know him well, and 'Jacob' is his middle name.

With only forty-eight hours to go until Orli tries out for his place as Urban's opponent, Astin's wary of spoiling his fighter's edge by over-training. Orli will do better if he gets to build up a head of steam, a little frustration over the lack of his usual sparring routine. Astin sends Orli home shortly after four-thirty in the afternoon, with instructions to get lots of sleep and drink plenty of water.

At five o'clock, Orli shoulders his way through the crowd at the bar of the Square Ring pub. Many of Orli's mates drink here too, and there's a lot of playful shoving and back-slapping by way of greeting. When Orli reaches the bar he orders himself a pint; while he waits, someone else eases in next to him. Orli glances sideways at the newcomer and then hastily looks away, fixing his gaze on his newly arrived pint. Dom has impressed on Orli how important it is that _no one_ know Orli's going to fight Urban until the official declaration. The last thing Orli should be doing right now is drawing the attention of anyone connected with Urban. Orli knows he should just move away from the bar, and run don't walk to the nearest exit.

Orli turns his head again, staring straight at his neighbor until the other man becomes aware of his gaze, and looks at Orli.

"You're Sean Bean, right?" Orli asks.

"Yeah," Bean says, like he's waiting to see if Orli thinks that's a good or a bad thing.

"Christ. I'm just - I'm a real fan of yours," Orli grins, his dark eyes glittering with delight, and Bean's eyebrow arches in amusement and his mouth widens into a lopsided smile.

"That so?" he prompts, his voice husky with suppressed laughter.

Orli's face and ears flush pink, and he ducks his head in embarrassment.

"Yeah. I saw you fight in an all-weights free fight tournament in ninety-four. You were incredible man."

"Thanks very much," Bean says warmly.

Bean's drink, whiskey with a little jug of plain water, arrives. Bean reaches for his wallet, but Orli cuts in.

"Please, let me."

Bean nods appreciatively.

"Cheers - I'm sorry. I didn't ask yer name," he says, as Orli hands the barmaid the price of Bean's drink.

"Jacob," Orli says without missing a beat. "My name is Jacob."

"Well, cheers Jacob."

Cut.

By the second round of drinks, Orli's displayed enough knowledge and fellow-feeling for Bean to be sure he's a fighter too. When he asks Orli who he's gone up against though, Orli just shrugs.

"No one you'd have heard of."

Bean's having too good a time to press the point, so he just lets it go.

By the third round of drinks, they've moved away from the bar to a more secluded spot in the corner. The conversation's moved on from the specifics of MMA, or free fighting as it was called when Bean was still climbing into the ring and kicking arses ten years younger than his. They talk about sports in general: soccer, Orli's interest in rugby, Bean's recently acquired interest in speedway. They talk about bets won and lost, insane distances traveled to watch a particular race or game or fight.

Now when Orli looks at Bean, which he does almost continuously, he's not seeing the hero whose magazine photos adorned the inside of thirteen year old Orli's gym locker. Orli sees a man, craggy and a little battered, but with amused eyes and a sort of swagger to the tilt of his head and an unshakeable serenity in his strength.

Orli also sees the way Bean's looking back at him, and it's not like a star being graciously pleasant to a hero-worshipping fan. Bean watches Orli intently, the slide of his eyelids to half-closed failing to hide the gleam in his swamp-green eyes. Orli's aware of Bean's gaze on his fingers as he wraps them lovingly around his beer glass. Bean tracks the path of the glass rim to Orli's mouth; something shifts behind Bean's eyes as Orli swallows and then deliberately licks his top lip clean. Orli quit smoking at sixteen for fear it was making him less effective in a fight. If he had a cigarette right now, though, Orli's pretty sure he could goad Bean into lunging across the table and fucking him right where he is.

"You wanna go somewhere else man?" Orli asks.

"I'm parked out the back," Bean says, almost steadily.

They get up, and Bean lets Orli go ahead of him, down the narrow hallway past the men's toilets to the back exit. Bean reaches around Orli to work the push bar on the door; Orli halts, put slightly off-balance by Bean's gallant gesture. Orli glances at Bean; the space between their faces is too fucking small, and Bean smells too fucking good, and Orli's pulse is already pounding.

Orli makes a muffled 'umf' sound as Bean moves in and his open mouth covers Orli's parted lips, his tongue pushing swift and slick between Orli's teeth. Orli's knees turn fluid and if it wasn't for Bean's body pressing Orli insistently against the wall, Orli's pretty sure he'd just fold.

Orli moans into Bean's mouth, overwhelmed by how fucking _good_ Bean tastes: whisky and warmth and wisdom. Bean's big hard hands rifle under Orli's jacket and thin sweater, fingertips searing across the tender skin of Orli's stomach. Orli writhes against him, appreciating how perfectly matched they are for height: mouth to mouth, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.

Bean breaks the kiss and shifts his attention to the skin under the corner of Orli's jaw.

"Sean," Orli shudders, his voice raw with the ferocity of his arousal.

"Jacob," Bean rumbles against Orli's ear.

Crap, Orli thinks. Sex under false pretenses.

The only decent thing to do is to untangle himself from Bean's unrelenting assault of kisses and bites ... pry Bean's knowledgeable hands off his thighs ... escape from the slow sure drag and shove of Bean's erection against his ...

"Sean," Orli says with great determination.

"Tell me what ye want," Bean husks, the words hot against the skin of Orli's throat.

"I want you to fuck me like you mean it," Orli says in a shaky rush.

Bean lifts his head, wolf-grins into Orli's wide eyes.

"When the other bloke looks like you do Jacob, I always mean it."

Cut.

Bean thumbs his key-ring and his car 'meeps' its locks open and its alarm off and its lights on. Bean heads for the driver's side, Orli for the passenger's.

"My place okay?" Bean asks, his hand on the door handle.

"Anywhere. Anywhere you fuckin' like man, as long as it's close."

To illustrate the point, Orli cups his hand over the bulge of his own erection, rubbing himself slowly through the denim of his jeans.

"Oh … bloody hell," Bean growls. "Get in the back of the fuckin' car."

Bean wrenches the driver's door open and flicks the headlights off again, then shunts the driver's seat as far forward as possible. He slams the door again and comes round to the passenger's side. He makes the same adjustment to the passenger's seat, while Orli pulls his own jacket and sweater off, throws them into the front of the car and scrambles bare-chested into the far corner of the back seat. Bean digs through the glove compartment and comes up with a travel size bottle of lube, which he tosses to Orli. Bean straightens up, slides his jacket off and throws it on the passenger seat, then shuts the front passenger door and climbs in beside Orli.

Bean barely gets the door on that side pulled closed before Orli twists and climbs into Bean's lap, head bowed to avoid the car roof, one knee on either side of Bean's hips, legs spread wide and straddling Bean's crotch.

"Fuckin' beautiful," Bean rasps, his hands spread wide, shaping out the flare and taper of Orli's sleekly muscled shoulders and back.

Orli ducks his head, biting into Bean's lips, cradling Bean's jaw in his palms, thumbing the stubble-rough skin at the corners of Bean's mouth. Bean's fingers go to work on Orli's belt buckle and fly-buttons. When Orli finally breaks the kiss, they're both panting for breath.

"Fuck me," Orli manages, clutching Bean's groin and squeezing hard enough to make Bean snarl.

"Lose the jeans."

Orli rolls back off Bean, curses under his breath as his sneaker heel fouls on the back of the driver's seat and then, in yanking it free, manages to passingly knee himself in the chin. He slithers into a slouch on the other half of the back seat. He heels his sneakers off, revealing bare feet with unnaturally long toes. He hoists his hips and shimmies his jeans and boxers down over his cock, down his thighs. He kicks them the rest of the way off and throws them, together with his sneakers, into the driver's seat.

Bean gets his own pants open, pushes them and his underwear around his thighs. There's another outbreak of knees and elbows and Orli laughing 'bugger' as he bangs his head on the car roof while straddling Bean again. Orli grips Bean's cock and works his hand slowly but firmly on the slick between Bean's foreskin and the head of his cock. Bean makes a low noise deep in his chest.

"Let me fuck ye," he says, gazing up at Orli with raw hunger.

Orli retrieves the bottle of lube from where it's rolled into the crevice between the seat and the seat back.

"I'll do that," Bean says, baffling Orli's fingers in his own.

Orli grins, cat-sly, and lets Bean take the bottle away from him. Bean flips the lid and pours some out onto his fingers. He flips the bottle closed again and discards it, slipping his fingers together to coat them well.

"Up."

Orli lifts up onto his knees, leaning over and across Bean to avoid another encounter between his head and the roof. Bean's fingers slide a stripe of cool wetness along the crease of Orli's ass, making Orli shiver pleasantly. Bean uses one fingertip to tease at Orli's hole, pressing experimentally, trying to figure out how good at this Orli is. Bean pushes his forefinger in as far as the first knuckle and crooks it gently. Orli hisses; Bean's got big hands, thick rough-skinned fingers.

"More," Orli breathes.

Bean pushes again, and the rasp of his callused finger sliding into the ring of delicate flesh makes Orli bite down on Bean's cotton-covered shoulder to stifle the cry of pleasure welling in his throat.

"Ye're bloody tight," Bean frowns. "Open yer legs wider. Bear down."

Orli does as he's told, stretching his legs apart until the tendons in his groin begin to complain, and pushing his internal muscles down on the pressure of Bean's finger in his arse. Bean withdraws a bit and then pushes in again and everything slides a little easier, though there's no respite in the intensity of the friction sending white sparks along Orli's nerves. Orli pushes his forehead into the cool leather of the seat back.

"Good lad," Bean breathes, making slow circles with his finger inside Orli, making Orli groan.

Bean withdraws, reslicks his hand, and works two fingertips into Orli's hole.

"Bear down," he says again when the muscles of Orli's arse start to shake.

Orli twists his face against black leather, grips Bean's shoulder tightly, and pushes down. Bean pushes back, and his fingers slide in on a heart-stopping rush of hot and hard and Orli moans pathetically. Bean finger-fucks him, slow and deep and with a curl to his fingers that makes Orli catch his breath at the zenith of each push.

"Now," Orli says, turning his head to look Bean in the face.

"Are ye sure? I don't want to hurt ye."

"I'm always tight. It's like, genetic or some shit."

Bean laughs at Orli's serious expression. He withdraws as gently as he can, takes up the lube bottle again, and this time slicks his cock as well as Orli's hole. Orli shifts back to center, bringing himself directly over Bean's cock, which Bean is holding securely vertical. It's not an easy angle; Orli's position on his knees is tensing the muscles of his arse, he's quick with desire, and not inclined to be patient with his own body. Bean smiles indulgently, splaying his free hand wide on Orli's right hip in an effort to communicate some of his own composure.

Orli gets it, gets the head of Bean's cock into his arse and pushes out and down and despite the almost searing intensity of the sensation he forces himself down steadily until he's sitting hard in Bean's lap and Bean's throwing his head back and yelling out his pleasure.

Orli falls forward, his forehead against Sean's shoulder, shaking like an injured animal and struggling for air.

"Ye bloody lunatic," Bean gasps, his brow furrowed against the overwhelming tightness of Orli's arse around his cock.

"Jesus, move," Orli says urgently. "It feels like it's on fucking fire man."

Bean obliges, small gentle shifts that at least have the virtue of moving the sensation around a bit.

"Fuck, fuck," Orli mutters as things turn from fiery to merely molten, as the friction turns from too much into too good.

Orli leans back as well he can in the confined space and starts to move, slow twists and turns that play his arse from the root to the tip of Bean's cock. The angle of Bean's cock in his arse sends warm stabs of pleasure through Orli's belly. Orli picks the pace up a little; he circles his hips, and makes killing little oblique movements as well as up and down and side to side and forwards and back. Bean's struggling for control, trying to contain his movements. His boot heel thunks solidly against the underside of the front passenger seat.

Orli stretches back further, resting his shoulders on the seat behind him, his body extended in a taut bow, his hands sliding up his thighs to his cock and balls, stroking and pulling and squeezing. Bean takes hold of Orli by the waist and uses his grip to force the tempo, finding a punishing counter rhythm to Orli's movements.

"Fucking beautiful," Bean growls. "Ye're a fucking beautiful bloke Jacob."

Orli's got minimal leverage in this position, and the burn in his thigh muscles and the so-sweet friction in his ass and the razor sharp ripples of pleasure in his cock become a single ball of fire and good and fucking _so_ good. Orli blinks the sweat out of his eyes and looks at Bean, meets Bean's glare, and exhales a breathlessly unsteady laugh.

Bean's hands tighten down on Orli's hips and Bean fucks him hard and fast and greedy. Orli's breath gets knocked out of his lungs and he squeezes the head of his cock, trying to hold back the urge to burst, to break open, to just -

\- Orli half-chokes, convulses, white gouts of spunk pulsing imperiously from between his fingers. Bean smirks and pumps even harder, making Orli savage with delight. Bean grunts, squeezes Orli's hips so hard that Orli can't entirely stifle a sound of pained protest, and Bean comes, Orli squirming at the hot liquid quiver inside his arse.

Orli swoops forward, falling against Bean's neck. Bean pants into Orli's ear, smoothing his hand over the tangled curls of Orli's hair and murmuring guilty apologies.

"You okay? Bloody 'ell, I'm sorry; I got a bit carried away there."

"Me too," Orli purrs, incapable of lifting his head.

Bean laughs and settles back, gathering Orli's naked body more securely into his arms.


	11. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 11 (this part EW/BB).

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 11 (this part EW/BB).** _

  


"Elijah? Baby, it's Liv, let me in."

Elijah unhooks the chain and turns the latch and cracks the front door of the flat open a couple of inches. He walks away, leaving Liv with the option of coming in or not, as if it's all the same to him.

"Sweets? I'm so sorry, I had my phone off last night and then I stayed over with Craig and I didn't check messages until I got home this morning but I came right over and - "

Liv stops abruptly, getting her first real look at Elijah as he pauses at the kitchen counter to pick up a cigarette. He looks like shit, his hair tangled and his face white except where it's red from crying. His small frame is swathed in a ragged, outsized gray sweater and knee-less jeans hanging precariously from his narrow hips, and he's barefoot.

"Baby?" Liv says with dawning dread. "What's happened?"

Elijah looks directly at her, and Liv inhales sharply. Elijah's eyes are dead: vivid blue enamel, their extraordinary color even more startling against the redness of his eye rims. His lush little baby mouth is pressed closed, and his quick mobile features have the stiff composure of a corpse's. She takes a step toward him, and Elijah half backs away, and that more than anything makes Liv's heart twist fearfully.

"Oh God. Elijah? Tell me."

"Dom. Dom's in trouble," Elijah answers, his voice devoid of emotion.

Liv inhales very carefully, almost nauseated by the strength of the relief washing over her. Dom's always in trouble, it's like a congenital condition with him. Anger sprouts quick and clean right under her ribcage. She's gonna give Dominic Monaghan a piece of her mind and then some, for putting this mask of blasted grief on Elijah's sweet face.

"Oh sugar pie, it's okay," she croons. "You know Dom's - "

"It's _not_ okay," Elijah cuts in viciously. "He owes someone money, a lot of money, and if he can't pay they're going to _kill_ him. Come on Liv, in what sense is that _okay_?"

Liv just stares at him. She can't answer, because right now she couldn't care less if someone put Dom through a meat-grinder; all she can think is that Elijah doesn't belong here, doesn't belong in this world. Elijah wasn't made for standing in this grimy flat, his face rigid with fear and grief for his dickwad boyfriend who's apparently gambled himself right into the shit this time.

Elijah, despite the hectic shake in his hands, manages to get the cigarette between his lips and lit.

"Tell me about Billy," he says tightly between drags.

"What?"

"Billy. Dom's ex. Tell me about him," Elijah says again.

"Oh honey, no. Billy washed his hands of Dom when they broke up."

"I don't fucking care if he cut them off at the wrists," Elijah says coldly. "Tell me about him."

Cut.

"You're Billy Boyd, right?" Elijah asks, standing on the threshold of Billy's tiny office.

Billy does not consider himself a romantic man, or a sentimental one. Billy does not allow his emotions to overcome his good judgment, not anymore, at least. So he has nothing, no defense, no way to even name what it is that happens to him when he lifts his gaze from his computer's screen to the boy standing in his open doorway.

Eyes that make Billy feel like gravity has suddenly abandoned him and he's falling into the sky. The kid's beautiful: flawless skin and lush features, hooded eyelids and a sullen set to his mouth that makes Billy's heart hurt. More than merely young; he looks _new_.

"Billy Boyd?" Elijah says again.

"Eh, yeah," Billy says.

Elijah crosses the threshold, and Billy notices how the kid's fraying sweater sleeves hang down below the sleeves of his jacket, and how he weaves the thin knit nervously in and out of his fingertips.

"I'm Elijah Wood. I'm Dom Monaghan's boyfriend," Elijah announces.

"Ah see," Billy lies, as his heart mule-kicks in the middle of his chest. "Would yeh like to sit down?"

Elijah accepts the chair that Billy indicates.

"I'm here to ask you to help Dom," Elijah says, and presumably Billy's heart has drained out through the soles of his feet, because Billy's painfully aware of the gaping void in his chest where it used to be.

"Did Dom put yeh up to - "

"Dom doesn't know I'm here," Elijah cuts in. "And I'd rather he never found out."

Billy shakes his head.

"Do yeh understand what's goin' on? What Dom's gotten himself inta?"

"I know he owes someone twenty thousand pounds, and that if he can't pay it they're going to kill him. I know he can get the money when Orlando wins his fight, but he needs you to help him make that happen. And you've said no."

"So what makes yeh think Ah'll say yes to you?" Billy asks.

Elijah's brows gather up anxiously, and his eyes grow even wider.

"Because you _have_ to," he says. "I could pay you. Not all at once, but my parents send my allowance every three months, and I'd give it to you. And my book money – if I drop classes all together next term, I won't need books anyway. I'm not supposed to work here, it's on my visa, but I could get something. I'd give you that money too. Name your price; I'll find a way to get it if you just give me time."

Billy ducks his head, stares at his computer again, because if he keeps looking into Elijah's eyes, he's going to break.

"Yeh can't save Dom," he says softly. "Yeh can't fix 'im. He's gambled his way inta this; he's accepted money from someone he knows is a villain. Now he wants tah take twenty-five hundred of _yer_ money and gamble it on a long shot – an amateur fighter against someone's who's just unbeatable right now. That's his plan fer payin' his gambling debts: gamble some more. Even if by some miracle his fighter won and Dom got his money, it wouldn'ay make any difference. Six months down the line, he'll be inta McKellen for fifty thousand, a hundred thousand."

"I don't care about six months down the line. I care about now. I don't care about my money, I don't care about him gambling. I care about him being alive … "

"Ah can't," Billy husks, still refusing to look directly at Elijah. "Ah can't. Was a time Ah'd ah done anythin' fer that man … an' Ah did. Ah paid his gamblin' debts, paid his bail bonds, paid his fuckin' bar tabs. Ah picked him up an' brought him home from police lock-ups, from hospitals, from other men's fuckin' beds. Three years of my life, pourin' my heart and soul inta him and hopin' I could be enough for him. Well, y'know what? Ah couldn't; no one can."

"I don't _care_ ," Elijah says, his voice clotted with unshed tears. "Please."

Billy makes the mistake of looking, and sees the shining silver crescents welling in Elijah's eyes. Elijah presses his lips tightly together, clearly struggling to control himself in front this man he barely knows.

Billy looks away again, biting down hard on his own lower lip, refusing to speak until he can trust himself to say only what he should. The silence between them stretches on, miserable, but strangely lacking in awkwardness.

"Ah'm sorry," Billy says at last. "Ah truly am; Ah'd give anythin' to be able to say yes. But it's taken me five years to be able to refuse that man somethin'. Ah won't back down now."

There's no change in the quality of Elijah's quietness, not so much as a sigh. When Billy looks at him again, though, two silver streams of tears are trickling down Elijah's cheeks and dripping heavily from his jaw. Elijah nods unblinkingly.

"Okay," he chokes. And then, "McKellen. Where is he? How do I get to see him?"

"No! Elijah no, the guy's fuckin' dangerous," Billy says in a frantic rush. Somehow he's standing right over Elijah now: presumably he's pushed up out of his chair and come round his desk, but for all he knows he may have vaulted straight over the top.

"I have to - " Elijah begins.

"No!" Billy says again, and because Elijah won't look up at him, Billy drops into a crouch in front of Elijah's chair and puts himself directly into Elijah's downcast line of sight. "Ah – two years ago Ah swore tah God Ah'd do no more to help Dominic Monaghan gamble himself to ruin, and Ah canna go back on it. But promise me – swear to me – that yeh'll not try to see McKellen, and Ah will do somethin', anythin', everythin' Ah can for yeh."

"You'll help Dom?" Elijah whispers.

Billy closes his eyes, opens them again to reconnect with Elijah's infinite gaze.

"Aye. Ah'll help Dom," Billy murmurs. "It'll be alright."

Elijah flexes his fingers, and Billy looks down in surprise, and wonders how and when his own hand found its way into Elijah's.  



	12. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 12 (this part DM/VM NC-17)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 12 (this part DM/VM NC-17)** _

  


Dom quietly lets himself back into the flat a little before noon, just over twenty-four hours after he stormed out on Elijah. Truth is, Dom doesn't feel quite right about the way he left yesterday. Elijah was almost hysterical, blinded by tears and choking on his sobs, clinging desperately to Dom and begging Dom to tell him what was going on, and why hadn't Dom told him before. Elijah's small, but he has a certain strength in desperation, and Dom had to pry him off in order to slam out the front door of the flat.

Dom makes his way through to the bedroom, but Elijah's not there, or anywhere else for that matter. Dom's a little disappointed; he's about ready to make up with Elijah, but he shrugs it off, figuring they'll catch up with each other later.

Dom sits down on the side of the bed, combing his fingers through the tangled, smoke-scented mess of his hair. He's calm now, his body and mind filled with a shaky, chilled kind of false-peace. He started drinking early enough yesterday that he's already had one hangover and he's working on the remnants of the second. He's had enough cigarettes and coffee to set his nerves jangling, but his brain's too numb for want of sleep to do anything with the sensation. He ordered at least three different meals between yesterday evening and this morning, but didn't eat more than a couple of mouthfuls of any of them.

Dom strips and gets into the shower. He doesn't turn the water on very high: every inch of his skin feels bruised and raw, though there's nothing to see. He shaves while he's in there, and the rasp of the razor over the water-softened bristle of his three-day beard is painful enough to make his eyes prickle.

When he's dry, he goes into the kitchen and takes the half-full carton of orange juice out of the refrigerator and drinks the whole thing. His stomach cramps from the unaccustomed presence of something not lightened by alcohol.

Dom dresses again, crisp shirt right out of the wrapper, his best suit, the skinny red tie he was wearing the night he broke the table at the Black Jack casino club, freshly shined shoes. He combs his hair out, then ruffles it up again with his fingers. A discreet splash of sandalwood on his jaw. Dom grins crookedly at himself in the mirror; he looks like a winner, and that's at least half the battle.

Cut.

"Dom," Viggo says, his voice flat with surprise as he opens the front door of his house.

"Vig. I was just passing; if it's a bad time I won't come in," Dom grins, peering past Viggo into the bright hallway beyond.

"No, no, please do … come in," Viggo says in a rush, stepping aside.

"Cheers."

Viggo's barefoot; his jeans have a hole in one knee, and his shirt is softer and looser than anything Dom's seen him in before. Dom feels pleasantly vindicated; he's tabbed Viggo for a closet hippie all along.

Dom follows Viggo through to the sitting room. The house is a turn-of-the-century two family dwelling that's been knocked through to create one spacious home. Light spills through high, undraped windows onto bare wooden floors. The sparse furniture is large and darkly colored. The walls are all white, hung with big brightly splashy paintings, and constructions of rusty wire and beach debris. The mantelpiece and rough-hewn coffee table hold large, inscrutable sculptures of black stone.

"Can I get you something?" Viggo asks.

"Yeah, whisky'd be nice thanks," Dom answers, knowing perfectly well that Viggo meant tea or coffee; it's not even two in the afternoon.

While Viggo's pouring drinks, Dom takes out his cigarettes and lights up without bothering to ask if it's okay. He walks round the room, considering the paintings and the sculptures in more detail. Viggo comes to him and hands him a heavy tumbler with a healthy inch and a half of uncut spirit in it. Dom's amused to see Viggo's having the same.

"Yours?" Dom asks, tilting his head to indicate the artwork around the room.

"The paintings yes, not the objects."

Viggo doesn't ask if Dom likes them, which is the first hint Dom's ever had that Viggo has any idea who Dom is.

They go back to sit on the two large couches facing each other across the massive coffee table and the black stone enigma. Viggo's set out a saucer for Dom to use as an ashtray.

"So, I came by to see if you wanna come to Orli's try-out tomorrow," Dom says between drags on his cigarette.

"A fight?"

"Not much of one; Davies has no one who can come close to Orli. But it'll give you the flavor at least. Sooner or later you have to get your feet wet, right?"

"Alright," Viggo says, obviously surprised at his own acquiescence. "I'll do it."

When it comes down to it, Dom never analyzes a gamble. Oh, he thinks about it before hand, weighs the odds, calculates the possible payoffs. But when the moment comes, it's all instinct.

He stands up and slips his jacket off, folds it loosely and drapes it on the back of the couch he's been sitting in. He smoothes his tie down; Viggo's looking at him, presumably wondering why it's taking Dom so long to sit down again. Then Dom crosses to the other couch, and puts one knee into the dark gray upholstery beside Viggo's faded denim thighs, and straddles him. Viggo's wide eyed, staring like a startled deer, but it isn't until Dom presses his weight down into Viggo's lap and feels the blurry warmth of Viggo's erection pushing into the underside of Dom's balls that Viggo gasps in shock and shakes himself back into coherence.

"Dominic - " Viggo begins firmly.

"Vig, shut the fuck up," Dom murmurs softly, and smothers any further protest by putting his own mouth over Viggo's.

Viggo's hands come up to Dom's shoulders and grip tight. Dom works his teeth and tongue over the severe curves of Viggo's lips, fists up the front of Viggo's cotton shirt and rubs the fabric caught between his knuckles over the small stiff peaks of Viggo's nipples. Viggo's hips shift tentatively under Dom, and Dom pushes back hard, and feels Viggo's gasp snatching the air out of Dom's own lungs.

Dom swiftly goes to work on Viggo's shirt buttons, parting the white cloth to expose the whipcord muscles of Viggo's narrow chest. Dom palms his hands down both sides of Viggo's ribcage, genuinely impressed at the condition Viggo's in.

"You're fucking hot," Dom breathes against Viggo's lips, then bends his head lower so he can suck and lick and tongue flick Viggo's dark nipples. Viggo writhes in Dom's grip, his head falling onto the couch back, his hips making slow deliberate lifts and drops under Dom.

"Dominic … Jesus. I don't know if this is - "

"It is, it absolutely is man," Dom says emphatically, unraveling himself off the edge of the couch and onto his knees in front of Viggo.

His hands go to Viggo's jeans, opening the button and zipper and parting the two wings of worn denim.

Viggo's breathing turns hectic, and he grips his own thighs with both hands, his nail-beds turning icy pink from the pressure with which he's digging into his own muscles. Dom doesn't bother trying to pull Viggo's jeans or underwear down properly, just works Viggo's almost fully erect cock and his balls out through the front of his underwear.

"Let me suck you off," Dom says, hitching his tie down and opening his top two shirt buttons. His mouth is already so close to Viggo's cock that the shaft bobs appreciatively at the ruffle of Dom's warm damp breath. Viggo's hips lift fractionally, and the head of his cock nudges Dom's lips, and Dom opens his mouth and sucks Viggo down smoothly. Technically, _technically_ , one could almost say it's Viggo who initiates things.

Dom sets up a fairly overwhelming rhythm right away, plunging swiftly down on Viggo's cock until his lips are 'o'ed around the thick base, then smoothly back up with enough suction to make Viggo hiss. At the top of every withdrawal, Dom twists his head from one side to the other, his mouth describing a half-circle of rotation round the sensitive ridge of between the head and shaft of Viggo's cock.

Viggo's making small panicked noises and digging his bare heels into the wooden floor, struggling for traction. Dom shifts his attentions lower, licking Viggo's balls and sucking them one at a time into his mouth, while idling his fingers on the spit-slick head of Viggo's cock.

"Dominic," Viggo says again, more sharply this time, and Dom can feel Viggo's long lean body tensing under his hands.

"I want you to fuck my mouth," Dom growls. "I want to swallow your fucking come."

Viggo groans and his body writhes slowly, as if he can feel Dom's words sliding over his skin.

Dom takes Viggo's cock back into his mouth, setting up the same punishingly intense stimulation as before. Dom pushes his knuckles into the stretched denim between Viggo's legs, pressing at Viggo's arsehole while stroking and rolling Viggo's balls in his other hand.

Viggo pants and gasps and chokes, alternately pushing down into the couch cushions in an attempt to control himself, and making fevered little jerks of his hips to counter-match Dom's movements. Dom feels the tension pulling tight in Viggo's body, feels Viggo's breathing turn jagged and intermittent. Dom makes a noise low in his throat, knowing the vibration of the sound will hum deliciously along Viggo's nerves.

Dom dips and scoops Viggo's thighs up onto his shoulders, so that Viggo slides lower on the couch and loses his connection to the ground, his bare feet hanging behind Dom's back. Viggo flexes once or twice, as if trying to regain a more elegant and controlled posture, but Dom sucks harder and Viggo starts to come apart.

Viggo makes a small noise of desperation, then cries out, a complete failure of control, and Dom feels Viggo's cock pulse thickly in the back of his mouth, and works his throat around the gouts of lemon-sharp spunk.

Once the spasms stop, Dom lets the softening cock slip from his mouth. Viggo untangles himself from Dom and falls back among the cushions. Dom wipes the back of his hand across his own reddened and swollen lips. Viggo stares at him, fascinated by the gesture.

"Turn around," Dom murmurs.

"We _could_ relocate this to the bed," Viggo suggests, one eyebrow arched in dry amusement.

"I like it here," Dom smirks, nudging his knee into the side of Viggo's thigh until Viggo rolls over and kneels up facing the couch-back.

Viggo works on getting his jeans and underwear off, while Dom takes his tie off entirely, unbuttons the front of his shirt, and retrieves the small tube of lube from his trousers pocket before shucking his trousers and his underwear down to his knees. He shifts onto the edge of the couch, using one hand to guide Viggo's legs further apart, so he can kneel between them.

"I think I should warn you," Viggo says wryly, "the last time I had sex on a couch was about when you first hit puberty."

"It's like ridin' a bike, you never forget how," Dom says blithely, absorbed in getting his cock and the fingers of his right hand heavily coated in lube.

Viggo leans forward, settling his chest against the couch-back, then twists his head round to look at Dom from beneath the curtain of fair-brown hair hanging over his pale eyes. Dom meets his gaze and grins; Dom never expected to be able to dig quite this deep into Viggo and still preserve Viggo's vitreous surface intact.

Dom sweeps aside the tails of Viggo's shirt. He works his fingers carefully between the narrow cheeks of Viggo's arse, massaging slowly around the hole, trying to get a sense of how much resistance he can expect. Viggo hums, and turns his head away again, resting it on his folded arms.

Dom presses just the tip of his middle finger in. Viggo inhales, pushes back enough to slide himself down as far as Dom's second knuckle. Dom smiles to himself; Viggo's incredibly soft inside, the nothingness-soft of air stirring, softer even than Elijah. The long lean muscles of Viggo's haunches tighten and tremble, but the opening of his arse pouts tenderly open, and Dom's able to work another finger in, and after a minute, a third finger.

Viggo's sucking in long deep breaths, and shuddering them out again. Dom pushes slowly, twists slowly, withdraws slowly.

"Been a while has it?" Dom goads.

"Yeah, but I guess you never forget how," Viggo purrs. "Put it in."

"Put - oh, you mean you want me to fuck you," Dom grins, tucking his cock into the opening of Viggo's arse and feeling it spasm around him as he says it.

Viggo's breath catches for a second. Dom pushes, slowly, carefully.

"You want me to fuck you up the arse," Dom goes on, and feels Viggo flex internally, and Dom's cock slides further in on the relaxation. "You want me to shove my cock up your fuckin' arse, don't you?"

Viggo makes a guttural noise that might be an admission of guilt, or just a reaction to Dom's cock suddenly slithering all the way home, right up into Viggo's guts.

Dom straightens up, takes the sharp blades of Viggo's hipbones into his hands, and starts to rock, smooth and steady and not too slow. Viggo's breath shatters.

"Dominic."

"Oh that's fuckin' good, you feel so fuckin' good," Dom mutters vehemently.

Viggo twists as far as he can without unseating Dom, and Dom stretches to meet him, and they kiss messily, spit and slide and the angle all wrong. When they break the kiss, Viggo curls in on himself again; Dom straightens up and concentrates on a fast, fluid rhythm, piling the quick quivering sensation up, feeling the first warning tickle in the pit of his groin.

Dom closes his eyes, focusing on what he feels, on the humming red glow filling his pelvis and creeping up the base of his spine. Viggo rocks in his grip, absorbing each impact. Dom's hands wander, exploring all the sharp angles of bone and long lean curves of muscle that make up Viggo's thighs and arse and spine.

Dom hisses in a long breath. He can feel his skin flushing and tingling, as if his orgasm's collecting itself on his surface as well as deep in his groin and at the root of his cock. He's at the point where his orgasm's right at hand but frustratingly reluctant to just _happen_. Dom pumps harder, desperate to force the sensation all the way. Viggo grunts, not exactly a protest, more his breath being driven out of his body by the force of Dom's thrusts.

That sound does it, brings every drop of Dom's blood pounding right under his skin and _shit_ when did it get so hot in here, and then he's coming. Dom unfolds down onto Viggo's back, both hands winding around Viggo's waist and sliding over the bare skin of Viggo's chest and belly.

"Christ," Viggo says, sounding both impressed and appalled.

Dom resists the urge to bite him on the arse, hard. They disengage from each other, and Viggo strips off the shirt already hanging loose from his shoulders, and attempts a clean-up. Dom yawns, lack of sleep finally wrapping its insistent tendrils around him. He stands up, starts tucking and smoothing and fastening up.

"So, I'll pick you up tomorrow, right? Round two?" he asks.

Viggo looks surprised, like he didn't expect the invitation to the try-out to still stand.

"Yes."

Dom grins. Viggo's reclothing himself in his characteristically odd intense distraction. Dom thinks it might even be worth the effort of another go-round with Viggo sometime soon, just to see if he can shake that mask off for a little longer next time.

Cut.

Dom decides to eat before he goes home, and then sits through a movie showing. It's almost eleven when he finally gets back to the flat, and Elijah's already in bed with the covers pulled over his head. There's a bottle of sleeping pills on the bathroom counter. The dose is two tablets; Elijah only ever takes a half of one. Kid sleeps like a rock no matter what, even when he's upset. Dom astutely interprets the displayed pill bottle as the universal sign for 'don't come near me you fucking arse hole'. Dom pulls a spare blanket out of the hall closet and goes back through to the sitting room. Thirty-six hours without sleep suddenly hits him like a truck, and he stretches out on the couch with his single blanket and a cushion, and passes out.

Cut.


	13. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 13

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 13** _

  


Dom wakes close to noon, momentarily confused by the narrow lumpiness of the couch, and the scratchy blanket over him, and the lack of Elijah's furnace-heat next to him. Then he remembers he and Elijah are fighting. Then he remembers Orli's trying out with Rhys-Davies today. Dom's stomach jabs and twists with a potent combination of dread and exhilaration.

He gets up and goes through to the bathroom, pisses and showers and shaves quickly and efficiently. As he ruffles his hair dry in a towel, he pads barefoot to the half-open bedroom door and peers in. Elijah's sprawled across Dom's side of the bed, head buried under the pillows and ivory limbs emerging here and there from the tangles of dark sheet and duvet.

Dom thinks about waking Elijah and asking if he wants to tag along to the try-out, but decides against it. When Elijah's angry at Dom, he always undergoes a temporary but severe aversion to watching MMA. Dom snags his clothes from the wardrobe and dresser, and retreats back to the sitting room to dress: charcoal pin-stripe suit, black shirt, the same red tie he wore yesterday, black suede Chelsea boots. Just for the hell of it, he brushes off his black Trilby and puts it on, pulling the brim down low over his right eye. Time to go be lucky.

Cut.

Dom picks Viggo up, then they both stop by Astin's gym, which is closed for business for the day. Astin's fussing over a couple of sports bags' worth of stuff for Orli: towels, water, two kinds of tape, gloves, spare gloves, back-up spare gloves. Orli, dressed in a sleek black track kit with double white stripes on the trouser legs and a high collar on the zip-front jacket, lounges on a bench and talks idly to Daisy about Australian-rules football. It's a subject neither of them actually know anything about, so there's no grounds for disagreement.

There's an exchange of pleasantries all round, though Orli's eyes narrow speculatively when Dom introduces Viggo to him. Viggo, in turn, is clearly shaken by his first face-to-face meeting with an MMA fighter.

After a while they pick up and get themselves packed into two cars for the drive to the Harton Gate boxing arena. Dom and Viggo stay together, and Orli goes with Astin and Daisy.

By the time they reach their destination and regroup on the sidewalk, there's a visible change in Orli's demeanor. He's clawing his fingers through his dark curls, scratching at his throat, and yawning until his jaw audibly pops.

They go through the back door of the arena, and Astin, Daisy, and Orli head for the dressing room. Dom, with Viggo in tow, goes out to the front of the house, where John and a couple of his lesser associates are sitting in the ringside seats.

"Dommie," John crows expansively, as if Dom's his long lost son or something.

"Hey John," Dom smiles warmly, shaking hands all round, though he's forgotten the other two guys' names as soon as he's heard them. "This is Viggo Mortensen."

Viggo shakes hands while Dom watches benignly; Dom makes no effort to explain what Viggo's doing here, and no one asks, though Viggo's clearly out of his milieu.

"So, what have you got for me Dommie," John beams. "Something good?"

"Something great."

John exchanges glances of twinkling doubt with his colleagues, but Dom's confidence is unshakable now.

"Wait for me," Dom tells Viggo, indicating the row of seats behind John's.

Viggo nods, and sits. Dom goes back to the dressing room.

"We ready to go?" he asks.

Orli darts a look at Dom, wide-eyed and white-faced. Astin, compensatingly growing calmer by the minute, is taping Orli's left hand up with exaggerated care. When he's done, he draws Orli's gloves on and laces them up with the tenderness of a mother doing for her small child. Orli can't even sit still now; he swings his foot nervously, thudding his heel against the leg of the table he's sitting on. Dom, watching him with the jealous intensity of a devoted lover, sees the instant in which Orli starts to shake.

"Up," Astin says, and Orli gets to his feet, bouncing on his toes and shaking his arms out.

Orli's shirtless and barefoot, stripped to his track trousers only. He rolls his head from side to side, breathing in quick sharp nasal gusts. There's a gleam of sweat on his upper lip. If Dom could only find someone to take the bet, he'd stake his fucking life on Orli against anyone in the fucking world right now.

They walk back out front, down the sloped aisle with its wine red carpet. Just three and a half more weeks, Dom thinks, and they'll do this walk for real, Orli in front, Dom behind and to Orli's left, Astin behind and to Orli's right. Dom blinks, overcome by the future-ghost of flashing cameras and cheering spectators. God, they're gonna love Orli so fucking much.

Dom peels away to take his seat beside Viggo, Daisy sitting at his other side. Dom glances at Viggo, who's staring up at the ring in white-faced dismay. Dom looks back at Astin settling himself at one corner of the ring, while Orli swings himself up and between the ropes. Dom notices there's someone else already there.

Oh very fuckin' hilarious, Dom thinks sourly. Lawrence is six foot four in every direction, and weighs in at around two-hundred and fifty pounds when he's in lean mean fighting condition. The acting-referee gets into the ring; Lawrence and Orli touch gloves and square up to each other. Lawrence decides on a direct approach and throws a hefty right hook that will take Orli's head off if it connects. Orli ducks under it, twists a little, and catches Lawrence a stinging kick on the rear with the arch of his foot, before dancing away out of reach. If Lawrence didn't plan on killing Orli before, he does now.

Lawrence comes at Orli again, with more subtlety this time, using a two-punch combination to force Orli to duck to one side, and then a knee sweep that would wipe Orli off his feet except that Orli takes to the air, jumping right over Lawrence's attack and landing serenely on both feet in time to flip a swift slap at Lawrence's ear.

"What does he plan to do, Dommie? Dance Urban to death?" John goads, stroking the velvet lapels of his own suit jacket thoughtfully. "He's quick, I'll grant you, but it's not enough to out-dodge the opposition; he's got to be able to do some damage too."

As if in response to John's complaint, when Lawrence punches low, Orli grabs Lawrence's wrist in both hands and twists hard, shifting Lawrence slightly off-center. Orli pushes the advantage with a powerful shin kick into Lawrence's side. Lawrence folds but shakes Orli off and backs up a step or two; Orli bounces back, shaking his head as if to loosen the tension in his neck.

Orli attacks with a flurry of punches and kicks that Lawrence blocks but which are clearly pushing him to his limits of speed and accuracy. Orli leaps, a one-two jump that smacks Orli's right knee solidly into Lawrence's chin. Lawrence staggers, shaking his head. The instant Orli hits the ground he drops and rolls backwards over one shoulder to put a yard between him and Lawrence before springing up onto his feet again.

Lawrence draws himself upright, but Orli just _launches_ himself into the air, twisting, his right leg sweeping out horizontally in a beautiful airborne round house. Maybe there's a split second when Lawrence is back in the fight, before Orli's heel crashes into Lawrence's jaw. Lawrence drops like a landslide; Orli lands lightly and crouches, ready for more. But the ref's counting Lawrence out, and Lawrence's trainer is already shoving the ref aside so he can slap at Lawrence's face and get him to open his eyes and close his mouth.

Orli flips his thumb out from under his top teeth at Lawrence, and unfurls over the ring ropes and drops to the floor, straight into Astin's delighted hug.

"No, I think he's planning to kick Urban's head in," Dom says mildly, interweaving his fingers over his non-existent belly.

John snorts, an uncharacteristic loss of dignity.

"Lawrence is no Urban, don't get too sure of yourself yet Dommie."

"You've got no one who can touch Orli; he's the best one for this fight," Dom counters. "An' look at him; the punters will eat him up with spoon."

"Are you going to tell me anything about him? Anything I can offer as an excuse for slating a non-ranked fighter against the title holder?"

"Not a word. Don't worry, mystery sells. Besides, you don't need excuses John; you can do whatever you like. Who's gonna second-guess _you_?"

John rumbles in a way that conveys both pleasure at the compliment, and keen awareness of Dom's insincerity.

"All right, he's in," John announces. "We'll declare first thing in the morning; it'll be in the papers by lunch-time."

Dom's heart leaps at the same time his stomach clenches. Twenty hours left to find some way - any way - to get his bets placed. There has to be something - _someone_ -

\- Dom's suddenly floating, disconnected from everything else. Only Saturday afternoon punters play the short odds, putting their money where's little to gain but a reasonable certainty of gaining it. A gambler - a _real_ gambler plays the long shot, the very fucking long shot, and when he wins, he wins big. Dom knows exactly what he has to do.

Orli and Astin, their arms looped around each other's waists, saunter back to where the others are sitting. Daisy hugs Astin, while Orli introduces himself to John. Those sitting get up, and John invites them all for a celebratory drink.

"I'll join you guys later," Dom says quickly. "There's a little business I need to attend to."

And then, remembering his obligations, Dom murmurs into Orli's ear.

"Do me a favor, take care of Viggo, would you?"

"Sure thing, boss," Orli grins, looking over to meet Viggo's stare of stunned admiration.


	14. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 14 (this part DM/IM)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 14 (this part DM/IM)** _

  


This is it. This is the cold sweat, burning stomach, pounding heart high that Dom lives for. He's acutely aware of every thread of the clothes touching his skin, every breath rushing in and out of his lungs, and every stuttering beat of his heart. He's flying now, or falling, with nothing but the void and his wings to hold him up. Intellectually he knows the world is free to fuck him, leave him broken with nothing - _nothing_ \- but somewhere deeper and surer than intellect, he knows that can't happen. He's the sometimes favored child of fortune, and when it really counts, the world will smile and let him have whatever he has the balls to take.

Dom climbs the staircase leading from the public dining room of The Arabesque restaurant, to the smaller semi-private upstairs area. The walls are done in dark red cut velvet paper, and the carpet's plush and swirled with reds and golds. The lighting's soft and warm, turning the ice-white damask cloths on the tables to rich ivory.

Of the six tables in the upstairs area, only the one in the furthest corner is occupied. As soon as Dom emerges from the staircase, Cate gets up from her seat and strides towards him. She's wearing a silver gray silk slip dress that leaves her thin shoulders and arms bare and flutters around her knees as she walks.

"You've got to be kidding me," she hisses. "Tell me you've got twenty thousand pounds stashed in that suit."

"I need to talk to Ian."

"You need a fucking - "

"Cate, dear," Ian calls pleasantly. "Is that Dominic Monaghan I see?"

"Yes, Ian," Cate says plaintively, turning on her heel to address him.

"Well, do bring him over."

Cate throws Dom a look that baffles him with its venom, but she resignedly ushers him over to the table. She sits down again at Ian's right hand. No one offers Dom a seat, so he stands at ease with his hands clasped low in front of him.

"Mister McKellen," he nods by way of greeting.

Ian, resplendent in a black dinner jacket, starched shirt, and hand-knotted bow tie, considers Dom from his blond streaked head to his black suede toes with barely veiled amusement.

"Good evening Dominic. Come to give me my twenty grand have you?"

"No … not exactly. I've come to make you a proposition."

Cate snorts.

"Really? Well, propose away," Ian says.

"I've got a fighter going up against Urban for the MMA welterweight title," Dom says. "And I've got twenty-five hundred quid to bet on him. But he's an unknown fighter: long odds, off-form bet. And I need to get my stake down tonight or tomorrow morning, before the fight's declared, so I'll get the longest odds going."

"I can't imagine there are many bookies round these parts willing to take an off-form bet from _you_ , especially when you're staking twenty-five hundred on a long shot," Ian observes. "Bit obvious you know something they don't."

"That's why I need someone to place the bets for me. Break the money up into small stakes, place them with bookies who don't deal in MMA much."

"And you'd like _me_ to have someone take care of that for you," Ian smiles coldly.

Dom's insides slither around and try to climb over each other in order to get out of Ian's way. Cate stirs impatiently, but Ian holds up his hand and she subsides reluctantly.

"Now, why on earth would I bother doing that?" Ian asks.

"I cut you in for ten percent off the top of around a hundred thousand quid. In addition to the twenty thousand I owe you now."

"Assuming your fighter wins. Suppose he loses."

"Then you're no worse off than you are now. At least you had a chance of getting paid, which you don't if I can't place these bets."

"Do you have the stake?" Ian asks thoughtfully.

Dom reaches inside his jacket and produces the envelope containing twenty-five one hundred pound bills. He offers it to Cate, who hands it to Ian. Ian opens the envelope, counts the cash.

"Two questions," he says. "First, what makes you think I won't just take this and off-set it against the twenty thousand you owe me?"

Dom's stomach lurches.

"Because – because if you take it, that's all you'll get. You'll have to write off the other seventeen and a half grand."

"Mind your tone," Ian warns, and Dom can taste bile in the back of his throat.

"Secondly," Ian goes on. "You can't think twenty thousand means so _very_ much to me. I should think that, used wisely, twenty-five hundred might get you far enough away that it wouldn't be worth my while tracking you down. Why didn't you take this money and run as far as you could?"

Dom scowls, angry that Ian would even think that such a thing would occur to Dom, which it hasn't until this moment. But, fuck it, even if he had thought of it, he'd never have done it. This is his town as much as Ian's, and no one is going to run him off. Ian smiles approvingly at Dom's black expression.

"Deal," Ian announces.

Dom exhales, which he realizes he hasn't done for quite a while.

"Except, of course, that you can't expect me to have one of my employees spend the rest of the evening and half tomorrow morning running around placing your bets, when you're paying me nothing up front. I need at least a little something to sweeten the deal, Dominic."

"There's nothing else – I don't have anything else," Dom protests.

"Oh, don't be obtuse," Ian smiles, though Dom genuinely doesn't understand what Ian's saying.

"Ian," Cate pleads.

"Cate, I really must insist that you either be quiet or leave," Ian says.

Cate hesitates, then stands and walks downstairs.

"Come here, Dominic," Ian orders, and Dom steps forward before he has a chance to think about it, as if his feet respect Ian's authority more than they do his own.

"Kiss me."

Dom's eyes fly wide and he can feel the wash of heat burning red in his ears.

"Don't make me wait," Ian says softly.

Dom takes one step closer, then one more, but it's like the air has turned to lead. His heart is pounding in the pit of his stomach, and he needs to piss so badly his bladder is aching. One more step puts him right at Ian's shoulder.

Ian reaches up and takes hold of Dom's jacket front, and draws Dom down until Dom's forced to lean over and bring his face close to Ian's. Dom stares, wide eyed, both fascinated and repulsed by the icy glitter of Ian's glass-clear sea-blue eyes. Ian shifts his hand, cupping Dom's jaw. Dom shudders at the whisper gentle touch of Ian's large soft fingers.

"I _own_ you Dominic," Ian murmurs, and his breath against Dom's face tastes of mint and dark chocolate and fine spirits. "Twenty thousand pounds buys a hustler like you, body and soul, twice over. Don't forget that."

Dom manages to make a very small sound of acknowledgement, but can't stop looking at Ian's smooth, pale pink lips.

"I told you to kiss me," Ian breathes, but there's a steel edge to the quiet words.

Dom, trembling frantically, forces himself across the three-inch gap separating them. His mouth grazes Ian's lips, and they're soft as silk and cool and very faintly damp, and the sensation rips along Dom's already raw nerves.

Ian opens his mouth, and Dom feels the ruffle of hot moist breath on his own lips, and the slick soft tip of Ian's tongue sliding along the seam between Dom's lips. Dom wants to resist, but somehow fails to, and Ian's tongue slips between Dom's lips and traces the edges of Dom's upper teeth. Dom whimpers into Ian's mouth, and Ian abruptly pulls back, and looks at Dom with cool consideration.

"I think that will do for now," Ian announces. "I'll let you know if I require any further show of good faith."

Dom recognizes that for the dismissal it is, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away from Ian. Finally he manages to back away a few paces and then turns and practically runs down the stairs. At the bottom, Cate's waiting to grab his arm in her surprisingly strong fingers.

"You fuck up, Monaghan, and I'll see you dead," she mutters venomously at him.

Dom staggers a little when she releases him. His brows knit together in confusion. It's not up to him anymore; the stake's down, and it's all about Orli now.

Cut.


	15. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 15

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 15** _

  


The Sheriff's Arms is Billy's favorite pub. It's not a sporting pub; it's a drinking pub. If the small telly high above the bar is on at all, it's tuned to the evening news or an American crime drama. The crowd's dense enough to provide a heartening background of loud conversation and laughter, but not so dense that the service gets slow or the air gets stale.

"Billy Boyd, long time no bloody see," Bernard beams as he reaches the table where Billy's sitting and brooding over an almost untouched pint.

Billy stands, and the two men exchange warm handshakes and half-hugs. They sit again, Bernard parking his own pint next to Billy's.

"So you're looking for a minder," Bernard says, after taking a long pull from his beer. "Not for yourself though, right? Can't really imagine you getting yourself into that kind of trouble."

"No, it's not fer mehself," Billy admits. "It's fer … Dom Monaghan."

"Dom Monaghan," Bernard echoes flatly. "Jesus Christ, Billy. That ship hasn't just sailed, it's sunk like a bloody stone to the bottom of the sea. What d'you want to get involved with him again for?"

"It's no'like that," Billy protests.

"No, of course not," Bernard scowls, like Billy's a crazy person and Bernard knows better than to argue with people who are crazy. "So what's he gotten himself into this time?"

"He owes McKellen twenty-thousand quid."

"And he came wheedlin' you for help, and you caved? You soft-hearted bloody fool."

"He did not," Billy protests. "Ach, a friend of his asked me to do somethin' to help, an' I said I would. An' I will, as soon as I can figure out what. In the meantime, I thought maybe you could have someone make sure McKellen's not leanin' on Dom to the extent of broken bones or anythin' like that."

"A friend of his," Bernard says doubtfully. "That's funny. The last time I looked, the nearest thing to a friend Dom Monaghan had in this world was you."

Billy can feel the blush tingling in his cheeks.

"Well, there's someone new now," Billy shrugs, elaborately casual.

"Ah ha. Some other poor fucker dumb enough to get involved with him, y'mean. Nice looking fella is he, this boyfriend?" Bernard asks archly.

Billy shakes his head irritably.

"That's got nothin' teh do wi' it," he says. "It's just … he's so bloody young; he's not ready fer Dom's shite a'tall. Dom's no' lookin' out fer him, an' I jus' don't want teh see the kid get hurt, is all."

Bernard sighs mightily.

"For a sensible man, you're a bloody fool, Billy," he huffs.

Billy digs both hands into his hair.

"I do actually know that, thank yeh."

Bernard grimaces sympathetically.

"Well, I can get you someone, someone damn good too. I've got a bloke who usually works for the American coppers; looks after witnesses, that kind of stuff. But he's interested in setting up for himself over here, so he's working for me while he looks around. He's not cheap, but he's trustworthy, and he's up to anything McKellen can pull."

"Sounds great. Thanks Bernard."

"Don't thank me, I'm just helping you screw up your life again."

"That's what friends are for though, right? Helpin' yeh."

Bernard snorts humorlessly.

"Alright, I'll call Hugo and have him drop round tomorrow. Tell him to keep an eye on the boyfriend too, shall I?"

"Yeah," Billy says in a small voice. "I'd feel better if yeh did."


	16. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 16 (this part OB/VM NC-17)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 16 (this part OB/VM NC-17)** _

Oh for cryin' out loud. This was so hard to write – the guys wouldn't cooperate at all. And when they _did_ finally condescend to follow the script, they did it in such a way that they've probably derailed half of the upcoming plot and undone at least two of the romantic pairings I was working towards. I blame [](http://spillingvelvet.insanejournal.com/profile)[**spillingvelvet**](http://spillingvelvet.insanejournal.com/).

"If I'd known there was gonna be this much space, I'd have invited a few more blokes along, yeah?" Orlando grins, resting one knee experimentally on the corner of Viggo's king-sized bed.

He glances at Viggo.

"That was like, a joke man," Orlando says, snagging Viggo by the shirt-front and drawing him closer.

"Oh," Viggo answers, his attention fixed on Orli's unexpectedly graceful hand.

"Let's talk ground rules," Orlando says seriously, smoothing out the crumple he's just put in Viggo's shirt. "Most guys from outside the fight game think I'm gonna be some fuckin' domination freak. I'm not; I don't top for anyone, so don't even ask. You wanna fuck me, that'd be lovely. But I don't sub either; you try to get rough an' I'll break your fuckin' neck. Do we have an understanding?"

"Absolutely," Viggo murmurs, though in truth he has no idea what he's just agreed to. It doesn't matter: he'll do absolutely anything to keep this fantastical creature here.

Orlando leans in, having to tilt his face slightly upwards because Viggo's a couple of inches taller than he is, and takes a single deliberate swipe of his tongue across the deeply pitted dimple at the tip of Viggo's chin.

"Take off your clothes," Orlando murmurs, though his hands are already working quickly down the buttons of Viggo's shirt. "I'm gonna lick every fucking inch of you, yeah?"

"Yeah," Viggo says blurrily, though his only contribution to his own undressing is to touch reverently the tips of Orlando's fingers while Orlando unbuttons and unbuckles and unzips. Viggo's clothes drop garment by garment into a pile on the floor, until he's completely naked.

Orlando takes off his own track jacket, and then his white tee shirt. Clothed, he looks a lot rangier than he does stripped. Even then, the length of his limbs minimizes the visual weight of his muscles, and it's only when Viggo's hands close around Orlando's arms that Viggo appreciates the density and thickness of Orlando's biceps.

Orlando's erection is tenting out the front of his track pants, while Viggo's is nudging purposefully at Orlando's right hip.

"Get on the bed," Orlando says, and Viggo crawls on and stretches out on his side, his head pillowed on his arm.

Orlando heels off his sneakers and peels off his track trousers, the muscles of his thighs rippling as he bends low and then straightens again. He joins Viggo on the bed; Orlando gathers him close and presses his face into the angle of Viggo's neck and shoulder. Their arms and legs weave together, and Viggo inhales shakily at the heat and softness of Orlando's skin.

Orlando's breath is fever hot, and the wet sweep of his tongue on Viggo's throat is hotter still, but once Orlando moves to the next patch of skin, the cool touch of the air on the fine slick of Orlando's spit makes Viggo shiver.

Viggo's body unravels, and since he's already lying on his side there's nowhere for him to fall to except onto his back. He rolls onto his spine, and Orlando shifts with him, covering him. Viggo tenses against Orlando's expected weight but it never materializes; Orlando holds himself poised above Viggo, their bodies only glancing lightly against each other at thighs and hips and chests. Viggo's doubly confused about the whole dom-sub-topping thing now; whatever it was he expected, it wasn't this.

Orlando's mouth works its methodical way down Viggo's chest, spit-curling the dark fuzz on Viggo's breastbone. Viggo puts his hands on Orlando's naked body, spreading his fingers wide on the curve of Orlando's back and feeling the ripple and play of muscles under thin, hot skin. Orlando detours from the path down the center of Viggo's chest to suck at Viggo's nipples; the parting gesture to every patch of skin is a flat, rough-tongued lick.

Viggo arches under Orlando, trying for more contact between their bodies. Orlando takes hold of Viggo's hips and holds him down, but gently, so gently. It's been a long time since anyone took Viggo apart with such thorough care.

Orlando's mouth follows the ridge of Viggo's hip, in and down and along Viggo's groin tendon. Viggo jerks impatiently, buries his fingers in Orlando's darkly gleaming curls. He can feel Orlando's smile stretching against his groin.

Orlando licks his way into the crease between Viggo's body and his balls. Viggo gasps, clutches at Orlando's hair.

"Hey. Knock that the fuck off," Orlando says sharply, twisting his head to work his curls free from Viggo's fingers.

"Sorry," Viggo winces.

"Nah, it's okay man," Orlando smiles, before returning to the precise spot he left off at.

It's not a blow-job; it might be less maddening if it was. Orlando said 'lick', and he meant it. He works his tongue over every inch of Viggo's shaft, then around the ridge and over the stretched-tight head and the leaking slit. Viggo's shaking, twisting the bedclothes in his fists, gasping for air.

"Turn over, onto your hands and knees," Orlando says against Viggo's inner thigh.

Viggo figures he _really_ didn't understand the dom-sub-topping thing, but it's good, it's all _so_ good. Orlando's long slender hands guide Viggo onto his hands and knees, stroking Viggo's lean haunches. Viggo folds down onto his elbows, feels the change of angle open him up. What the hell; it's got to be four years since he bottomed for someone, and now it looks like he's going for twice in twenty-four hours.

Orlando licks a trail up the back of Viggo's thigh, over the rise of Viggo's behind. Orlando spreads his hands on the cheeks of Viggo's ass, eases them apart a little. Viggo squeezes his eyes shut, waits for the –

\- "Nnughh," Viggo says, as Orlando's tongue brands a burning stripe from the underside of Viggo's balls to his tailbone, including a shattering second of contact with his hole that makes Viggo jerk and shudder.

Orlando's tongue comes back to the same spot, stabbing softly, and Viggo's belly turns to trembling warmth, and he buries his face in the bedclothes in a fairly ineffectual attempt to muffle the appalling noises coming out of his own mouth. The quivering spreads from his stomach to his balls, and Viggo's presented with the very real possibility that he's going to come right now, like a fifteen year old boy instead of an experienced man of forty-five.

"Lube?" Orlando asks urgently, taking his tongue out of Viggo's ass at the very moment Viggo's about to irrevocably lose control.

Viggo's too busy trying to quash the sparkles of sensation pin-pricking his skin to answer right away. He finally manages to gesture with his chin in the direction of the nightstand, and Orlando scrambles off him and starts rifling drawers. Viggo knows he needs to say something, to at least put on record his unwillingness to become a new stop on the MMA east London circuit. Problem is, he's not sure he _is_ unwilling.

Viggo twists enough to spy Orlando from beneath Viggo's own arm. Orlando's smoothing lube onto his cock; his hands and eyes and every line of his body is intent.

Orlando smears out some more from the tube, reaches behind himself, leaning over a little. Viggo untwists up onto his knees. Their eyes meet, and Orlando grins broadly. He stretches out on his stomach, shifting and jiggling until he gets himself comfortable, one hand wrapped around his own cock, where it presses into the mattress.

"Now. Come on man," he says, hitching his ass encouragingly.

Viggo straddles the backs of Orlando's thighs.

"You'll need to use your fingers first," Orlando says helpfully.

Viggo takes up the discarded lube and coats his fingers. He pushes and probes and finds the already slick and so hot opening between the dusky warm cheeks of Orlando's ass. He snugs his thumb right up to the opening, then presses inside.

Viggo rotates his thumb, and leans a little on the rim of Orlando's opening. Orlando makes shapeless sounds of approval. Viggo switches to his index and middle fingers; they go in easily enough, but when he presses deep he can feel Orlando's internal muscles clamp down hard.

Orlando moves under Viggo, groaning in pleased dismay. He's tighter than Viggo expects, but he's opening beautifully as Viggo works a dirty grind and circle with his fingers. There's a weird moment when Viggo, slowly and teasingly twisting his fingers out of Orlando's ass, finds himself frowning irritably at the thought that Orlando's other pick-ups may not always take the time and care Orlando needs.

"Oh holy fucking God," Orlando moans into the pillow. "I'm ready … fuck me."

Viggo nudges the head of his cock against the softness of Orlando's ass hole and just _leans_ and he slides into the sweet heat and constriction. Except for a few breathy whimpers from Orlando, Viggo's able to slip all the way in without any real resistance. Viggo lets himself fold down onto Orlando's back, savoring how the highs and hollows and curves and crests of their bodies fit together so perfectly.

Viggo withdraws smoothly, then pushes back, all the way, with a killing little hitch of his hips at the end. He makes the rhythm slow but insistent, and feels Orlando's body respond almost at once with a twitch of tension that pulls Viggo even deeper instead of trying to keep him out. Viggo relaxes into Orlando's body, reducing his motion to an abbreviated push between deep and deepest.

Orlando's really getting into it, grinding out low cries of pleasure. Viggo draws up onto his hands and knees, pulling Orlando with him, reverting to a long smooth pumping motion. Orlando lets his head hang low, his eyes squeezed shut and his fingers working quickly and lightly on the head of his cock. Viggo steals his hand round the curve of Orlando's hip and nudges Orlando's fingers out of the way to make room for his own. An experimental squeeze tells him Orlando's rock hard. The sounds Orlando makes get more jagged.

Another shift and Viggo's upright on his knees, Orlando pulled up with him, Orlando's long body draped against Viggo's, Orlando's head lying on Viggo's shoulder. Viggo's hand pumps lightly and quickly around the head of Orlando's cock, matching the rhythm of Viggo's cock in his ass. Viggo guesses that the sudden change in the tone of Orlando's moans and the rhythm of Orlando's gasps means he's close and getting even closer.

Viggo slides his free hand flat across Orlando's stomach, feels the flex of muscles under the skin. Viggo's too close, everything in his body coiled and humming and right there except for his refusal to let it actually happen. Viggo thinks about weight and power and the physics of flying.

Orlando folds as if he's been punched in the stomach, his ass clenches around Viggo's cock, and his cock pulses in Viggo's hand, and there's a spatter of wet and warm and Orlando's shaking and whispering

"oh shit oh shit oh shit"

under his breath. Viggo lets himself go or just loses control and his much-delayed orgasm rips through him like a fire-storm, long and strong and enough to make the edges of his vision shimmer red.

Viggo holds it together exactly long enough to withdraw smoothly from Orlando, then they both collapse in a sweat-sticky tangle of limbs, Orlando half under Viggo. Viggo presses his mouth to the flushed skin of Orlando's cheek, but Orlando turns his head at the same moment and their mouths meet.

Cut.


	17. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 17 (this part DM/EW, NC-17).

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 17 (this part DM/EW, NC-17).** _

  


_Don't think_ Dom tells himself over and over, until those words fill his head to the exclusion of everything else. If he thinks then the fear crouching in the pit of his stomach will spring, will tear his fucking throat out, will send him screaming off the nearest bridge. And any fucking fool knows you can survive the fall into the Thames.

Dom doesn't exactly want to be dead; he wants to be the kind of person who'd want to be dead right now. He wants the option of just folding his hand and accepting his losses. Dom has enough insight into himself, though, to know that he'll stay till the endgame. Dom likes to say that luck is just statistics, and he faintly remembers from school that there are no absolutes in statistics, there's always room for a miracle. All of which is Dom's way of justifying his belief that things will still somehow turn out the way he wants.

 _Twenty grand_. It's ironic really; there've been nights when Dom stuffed more than that into the pockets of his tuxedo jacket, and even though the payout was in hundred pound notes it spoiled the line of his suit. There've been days when Dom bundled fistfuls of twenties and tens into a duffle bag and grinned at the dour faces of the racecourse bookies. Dom's had twenty grand pass through his hands often enough that he's not sure exactly how often. Twenty grand shouldn't be this hard. Twenty grand is fucking pocket change … less than that to Ian.

Dom's stomach winds up tight and sinks slowly into the abyss. Twenty grand shouldn't be enough to get Dom a home visit from Cate, much less an impromptu audience with Ian. Dom's been attributing that to his irrepressible luck. Now he's beginning to suspect it might have more to do with the fact that he's fucking doomed. Dom dimly suspects that, even if he had the twenty grand on him right now in crisp new banknotes, he still wouldn't have what it's going to take to unhook Ian's claws this time.

Cut.

It's only a little after ten when Dom, having established that beer and whisky have no power to improve his mood, returns to the flat. Elijah's already in bed, reading a dog-eared and long out-of-date issue of Rolling Stone.

Elijah looks up when Dom comes into the bedroom, and Dom's heart constricts at the sheer beauty of Elijah's face. It's not something he often notices. He sees Elijah as dirty and depraved and so fucking hot, but rarely beautiful.

"I'm still pissed at you," Elijah says pointedly, as Dom shrugs off his jacket and heels off his shoes and pulls his tie out from under his shirt collar.

"I know," Dom says, trying for off-handed, but his voice clogs in his throat.

He crawls onto the bed and folds down onto his knees and elbows, along Elijah's legs.

"Elijah. Forgive me or don't forgive me, just please don't make me sleep on the couch tonight. I really fucking need to be with you right now."

Elijah hesitates, his eyes growing wide with compassion, but his mouth still set stubbornly. Dom rubs his face against the bedclothes covering Elijah's thighs.

"I'm fucking begging you babe. We'll just do what you want – or do nothing at all if you don't want. But I need to hold you."

Dom's hands creep past the edge of the sheet and duvet and find the soft skin of Elijah's belly. Elijah stirs restlessly.

"You always fucking do this to me man," he complains, even as he twines his fingers in Dom's hair and draws Dom a little closer. "You always get around me. But you're not fucking me, okay?"

"Okay baby, whatever you say," Dom murmurs as he slides the bedclothes lower and reveals further expanses of pale skin, and wiry black curls and the flush-pink of Elijah's rapidly hardening cock.

Elijah groans and arches under Dom very slowly and deliberately. Dom nuzzles into the warm, ocean-scented skin next to Elijah's balls, and spreads his hands around the soft blades of Elijah's hipbones.

Elijah arches again, and cries out, a low shuddering sound. There's an even greater than usual intensity in Elijah's reactions; Dom can feel it through his hands and lips, under his own skin, in the rabbit-quick beating of his own heart.

Dom takes Elijah into his mouth, exhaling hard so that when Elijah inevitably bucks under him, Dom can ride the motion and let Elijah's cock slide all the way into the back of his throat.

"Fuck you fucking Jesus God," Elijah spits, his fingers tightening in Dom's hair.

Dom starts to slide his mouth up and down on Elijah's cock, slow and strong, while his fingers smooth the skin over Elijah's hips upwards and outwards. Elijah hitches one foot behind Dom, his bare heel digging into Dom's back below his left shoulder blade.

Dom grinds his own hips down into the bedclothes, sending a slow warm ripple of pleasure from his groin to the rest of his body. His hands slide up Elijah's ribcage, across the smooth planes of Elijah's chest, fingertips passing over the tiny hard peaks of Elijah's nipples. Elijah kicks his blunt heel into Dom's back. Dom pinches and plucks at Elijah's nipples, making Elijah thrash and hiss.

Dom can feel and taste the slick leak of pre-cum on the head of Elijah's cock, can feel the scrabbling shaking intensity building in Elijah's body. Dom moves his hands to between Elijah's thighs, massaging quickly over taut skin and muscle.

Elijah makes a noise like a dry sob. Dom sucks harder, determined to give Elijah all the friction he needs without resorting to using his hands. Dom palms Elijah's balls, pulling them down and squeezing them gently.

"Oh fucking – I have to - _fuck_ ," Elijah grinds as his body turns absolutely tight.

Dom abruptly draws back, keeping only the very head of Elijah's cock in his mouth, working the flat of his tongue back and forth across the slit and Elijah fucking _yells_ in triumph and Dom feels the tiny opening pulse – once – twice – before the flood of spunk fills his mouth and runs down the back of his throat.

Dom swallows, working the back of his throat as emphatically as he can, to draw out the jerking tremors of Elijah's orgasm. Elijah's sobbing with relief, stroking Dom's hair and murmuring over and over "so good, so good baby, so fucking good."

Dom tries not to, but he can't help wishing it were one of the times when Elijah tells Dom that he loves him. More intrusive though, is the awareness that no matter how much Dom rubs his face against Elijah's breathlessly heaving side, he can't wipe away the cold tingle of Ian's kiss.


	18. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 18 (this part BB/EW).

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 18 (this part BB/EW).** _

  


"Off the Ropes" Part 18 (this part EW/BB)

18: If I Had You.

Sometime in the night, when Dom can't sleep and Elijah's so still and silent that Dom knows he's awake too, Dom whispers against Elijah's ear:

"I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to be scared. It's going to be okay … I found someone to place my bets, and it's going to be okay. Better than okay."

Elijah doesn't say anything, he just exhales shakily and turns his face against Dom's shoulder.

Cut.

The pounding of boots on the narrow wooden stairs brings Billy's head up a jerk. He's already on his feet and one step around the side of his desk when Elijah explodes through the doorway and _careens_ into Billy's arms with enough force to make them both stagger. Before Billy's had a chance to right himself, Elijah wraps both arms tight around Billy's neck, the fingers of one hand in Billy's hair and his mouth next to Billy's ear.

"Thank you thank you thank you," Elijah whispers fervently, his breath hot enough to crinkle the suddenly sensitive skin of Billy's cheek and jaw.

Billy's hands, quite without permission from Billy, have already insinuated themselves under the folds of Elijah's corduroy jacket, and molded themselves to the curve of Elijah's waist. Billy hastily changes the emphasis of his grip on Elijah, setting him away a little instead of pulling him closer.

Elijah's face is shining, eyes crackling like the ultra-blue of a clear subzero sky, and cheeks flushed pink.

"Thank you. I know you said you'd make it okay but y'know, people always fuckin' say that and then … "

Elijah runs out of breath but continues to beam at Billy. Billy, frowning in utter confusion, opens his mouth to say something – anything – and Elijah just

plunges

and his lips are chill and soft and pushed against Billy's mouth so hard that Billy catches a fleeting taste of the heat and wetness beyond. Something fierce and green and new unfolds into life right below Billy's heart: a lawless joy. Elijah pulls back, eyes round with shock, and claps his hand over his open mouth as if to prevent any further accidents.

"Shit, sorry," he grins, "I don't know where the fuck that came from. I just – I never had someone just _come through_ for me like that."

"Elijah. What the hell's happened?" Billy asks, his voice ruthlessly held in check.

"Dom said – he told me – he'd found a way to place his bets. And I know you said you wouldn't, and Jesus I get how hard it must have been for you to go back on that and – just – _thank you_ ," Elijah says, watching with interest as his own fingers wind themselves in Billy's shirt pocket.

Billy feels a cloud of black bile filling his chest.

"It wasn'ah me," he says, even though the words cut like broken glass in his throat and mouth.

"Oh."

Elijah stares at Billy blankly, and Billy loosens his grip on Elijah to accommodate the icy withdrawal he expects, but it doesn't come.

"Well, I guess it's good that Dom had someone else to go to, right?" Elijah asks. "And, I totally know you would have found a way to help, too, if things hadn't gotten sorted out so fast."

Billy's heart breaks, right down the middle, with enough pain to make his eyes sting.

"Elijah. It's not over. Dom placing his bets isn't going to solve this. Karl Urban can't be beaten right now, there isn't a fighter in the league who can touch him. Dom's not goin' to collect a penny."

Elijah's brows gather together anxiously, and his lower lip pokes out a little. He looks at Billy, dark-eyed with disappointment, silently pleading for some reassurance.

"I haven'ah given up," Billy says gently. "I haven'ah hardly started. I'm goin' to figure a way to make this all come out alright for yeh - for you an' Dom."

Elijah bends his head until his forehead rests on Billy's shoulder.

"Billy. I'm scared," Elijah whispers. "It's like a nightmare I can't wake up from."

"Shh. It's goin' tah be alright," Billy croons, and his fingers have already established a slow, soothing rhythm in the soft fluff of Elijah's dark hair, before Billy realizes he's even touching Elijah.

"It's alright," he says again, and despite the cold lump of misery in the middle of his chest, the thing growing under his heart is covered in green leaves and fat buds and the first flowers are edging rashly open.

Cut.

Dom, dressed in a stained tee shirt and frayed denims, sits in the window of the bedroom, chain-smoking and rubbing his fingertips back and forth over the already reddened and parched skin of his lips.

Fucking Ian McKellen and his fucking twenty grand. Dom's been brooding over the words for so long that he's become immune to his own adrenalin; his fear is blunted by over-familiarity now. The old bastard's got a nerve, trying to freak Dom out. Dom's still got three and a half weeks to come up with the money; Orli's unbeatable, he's gonna kick Urban's fucking head off and he's gonna be famous and Dom's gonna be famous and Ian's gonna get twenty grand in very small change shoved up his fucking arse. Between drags on his cigarette, Dom unconsciously pushes his fingertips between his lips and along the edges of his top teeth.

Buy him twice over, Ian had said. Whatever remnants of fear are still clinging to Dom are extinguished by a sudden surge of anger. McKellen's got no fucking right to speak to Dom like that. Forty years ago, McKellen was exactly what Dom is now: a professional gambler still refining his craft. Lurching from broke to flush and back to broke in the space of a single weekend. Now McKellen's a minor god in the semi-licit world of gambling and money-lending. Someday Dom's gonna make him look like the hole-in-the-wall huckster he is.

Dom abruptly grinds his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray and swings off the windowsill. He's done with Ian's shite. He's gonna check in with Astin and Orli, then he's gonna go to a pub and get very thoroughly fucked up, and then he's gonna pay Ian a fucking visit.

Dom pads barefoot into the bedroom. He reaches for a suit hanging in the closet, but changes his mind. His big mistake has been to buy into McKellen's notion that Dom owes him something more than money. Dom shoves his feet into a pair of sneakers and snags his motorcycle jacket off its hanger.

Cut.

Billy's a pukka bloke; he's got friends all over, people who are happy to take his calls and have a wee chat. It takes Billy exactly one hour and fifteen minutes from the time Elijah leaves to find out who it is that's agreed to broker Dom's twenty-five hundred quid stake.

Billy thanks his source, and hangs up the big black phone very carefully. He stands up, and goes across the landing to the tiny lavatory. He closes and bolts the door behind him, and leans over the toilet, and pukes out whatever's in his stomach.

Dom's going to get someone killed.

Cut.


	19. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 19 (this part OB/KU, NC-17)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 19 (this part OB/KU, NC-17)** _

  


Somewhere in their conversation, Bean mentioned that his usual drinking haunt was the White Horse. Orli's certain it wasn't meant to hint at an invitation, and it's the kind of information he usually has no problem forgetting. After all, the charm of a one-night stand is that it lasts one night. But still … something blade-sharp constricts low down in Orli's guts when he remembers Bean. The guy certainly knows his way around a man, and he tops with just the blend of greed and generosity that gets the job done for Orli. It would be pretty sweet to try again, in a bed, so he could lay Bean out and take his time over him.

Of course, there's a whole other layer of reasons why Orli shouldn't attempt to see Bean again. As it is there's going to be hell to pay on fight day, when Bean realizes that 'Jacob' is really Orlando Bloom. On the other hand if Orli's doomed anyway, what harm is there in another go round? Bean smelled so fucking good, like a spring morning in a stout brewery.

Orli compromises with himself; after training, he goes round to the White Horse, but not to look for Bean. Just to, like, have a drink.

Cut.

Orli has rotten luck when it comes to trying to be good. He works his way through the unfamiliar crowd to the bar, congratulating himself on the degree to which he is not scanning the room for a head of roughly cropped strawberry blond hair. He receives his pint and moves away from the bar, looking for somewhere to sit.

"Hey, Jacob," Bean calls from a table tucked in close to the far end of the bar.

Orli hastily ducks and weaves and apologizes his way to Bean's table.

"Sean. Hey. Fancy runnin' into you, yeah?"

"You wanna sit?" Bean asks pleasantly, indicating the seat next to him.

Orli realizes that a black leather jacket currently occupies the seat opposite Bean. Bean's navy pea coat is hanging on the back of the chair Bean's sitting in.

"You're with someone," Orli shrugs. "I don't want to - "

"Hey coach. You gonna introduce me to - "

Orli turns and Karl stops in mid-word and Orli stops in mid-heartbeat and they both just _stare_ at each other.

"Are - "

"Am I - "

Bean tries and fails to suppress a sudden hack of laughter.

"Karl, this is Jacob – sorry, I never did catch your second name, Jacob."

Orli shrugs, without actually taking his eyes from Karl.

"And Jacob, this is Karl Urban," Bean continues.

"Hey."

"Hi."

Bean's eyebrows work their way up towards his hairline as he savors the sight of them frozen in mutual fascination.

"Well, if you two gentlemen will excuse me, I think I see a bloke owes me money," Bean smirks, gathering up his coat and rising from his seat.

"Don't you - " Karl begins, and Orli throws Bean an inquiring glance.

Orli wants Karl, but he doesn't want to be a complete shite about it to Bean. The warmth and genuine amusement of Bean's smile reassures both young men.

"Good evening Jacob. Karl, I'll see yeh at noon."

Orli and Karl sit tentatively at Bean's vacated table. Orli collects himself, and makes an attempt at a conversational opening move.

"So … do you - "

"Do you look this good naked?" Karl asks, frowning seriously.

Cut.

Orli tries to get his key into the lock of his front door, but he's having a hard time focusing on (or even seeing) what he's doing, what with Karl wrapped around the left side of his body. Karl's cock grinds slow and sweet against Orli's hip, and Karl's slippery tongue wriggles in Orli's ear.

The key finally stabs home; Orli turns the lock and pushes the door open, then turns more fully into Karl's embrace. The kiss is all tongues and teeth and the slick of spit around their mouths.

"Hum in," Orli manages to say around Karl's tongue.

They move at the same time, still connected at the mouth.

"Shite," Orli laughs when they completely fail to fit through the door together. Orli shoves Karl ahead of him, pulls his key from the lock, and boots the door closed behind them. Karl's on him in an instant, and they're a tangle of lips and tongues, Karl's big hands combing into Orli's curls, Orli's slender fingers rasping over the bristle covering Karl's skull.

"Get some of these fuckin' clothes off, yeah?" Orli pants.

They keep making ill-aimed little darts at each other's mouths while Karl shrugs off his leather jacket and hoodie. Orli drops his army-surplus parka jacket and strips off his sweater and the tee shirt underneath in one bundle.

"Aw … no way mate," Karl groans in disbelief as his fingertips trace the highs and hollows of Orli's flawlessly golden collarbones and chest. "That's beautiful. What do you weigh? One fifty?"

"One fifty one," Orli corrects, sliding both hands up under Karl's tee shirt, letting his fingers get a sense of the (hot, hard) terrain. "What about you? What are you – like, fucking one ninety?"

The cut between Karl's lats and his abdominals is deep enough for Orli to lay his index finger into the furrow.

"One eighty two," Karl says, his breath hitching as Orli's fingers find his nipples.

"Upstairs," Orli says, taking Karl by the hand and leading him to the narrow stairway. Orli climbs a couple of steps, but Karl hangs back, and turns Orli to face him again with a tug on the hand.

Karl pushes Orli up another step to put his groin about on a level with Karl's face. Karl leans in, one foot on the bottom step, one hand on the banister rail, one on the wall.

"Oh … crap," Orli says fervently, and then his head drops back and he has to grab for the banister and the wall to hold himself up as Karl takes as much of the bulge of Orli's erection as possible into his mouth. Karl exhales hard enough for Orli to feel the rush of warm, damp air right through his trousers and shorts.

Karl's nuzzling and nibbling the fabric over the head of Orli's cock. Orli lifts his left foot and braces it on the banister rail to give Karl better access. Karl growls approvingly, and the sound thrums through Orli's body.

Orli glances at his own hands, at his boot heel wedged against the banister. He collects himself, and considers his balance, increasing the pressure he's exerting with his hands. He lifts his right foot, bringing his leg up and hooking the back of his knee over Karl's left shoulder.

Karl laughs against Orli's crotch – a very pleasant sensation all by itself – and spreads one hand under Orli's ass. Orli feels the tension spring into Karl's bicep as Karl takes on the support of a significant amount of Orli's bodyweight. Orli tips his pelvis up, and Karl works his teeth over the crotch of Orli's trousers, mouthing Orli's balls and the root of his cock.

Orli snarls, a liquid panther sound. The sensation of hanging in empty space with Karl's mouth grounding him is fucking incredible. The building burn in Orli's triceps is competing with the fuzzy tingling between his legs, and it's time to stop this.

"That's enough," Orli gasps, lifting his knee off Karl's shoulder and lowering it, feeling around with the toe of his boot for the edge of the step.

Karl looks up and smiles, black coffee eyes glittering wickedly. He comes up another couple of steps, and before Orli has a chance to unfold himself from his braced position, Karl wraps his arms around Orli's waist. Orli's arms snake around Karl's neck, and his legs go round Karl's hips, ankles hooked together at the backs of Karl's thighs.

Karl carries him the rest of the way up. On the landing, Karl backs them up until Orli's spine hits the wall with a solid thunk, driving Orli's breath out of his lungs in a dry 'huff'. Karl lets Orli slip a little, bringing Orli's ass into a hard grind against Karl's cock. Orli shudders, squeezing his eyes shut for a couple of seconds before taking Karl's face between his hands and devouring him bite by careful bite: the arch of Karl's eyebrow, the blade of his cheekbone, the fleshy triangle of his lower lip.

Karl's hitching and shoving against Orli, hooking his hips under Orli's crotch so that the bulk of Karl's erection presses at the fabric over Orli's asshole.

"Still too many clothes," Karl murmurs against Orli's ear.

Orli unhooks his ankles, unfolds from Karl, and stands up under his own power, grinning as he hastily heels off his boots and opens his trousers. Karl steps back, surveying the view as Orli strips naked.

"That is just … beautiful," Karl breathes, as Orli leans back against the wall again, one hand moving lazily on the shaft of his cock. Orli smiles, and Karl drops his palm onto his own chest, a _shot through the heart_ gesture. Orli laughs.

Karl presses in on Orli again, pushing him into the wall. They rub against each other, Orli hissing at the friction of Karl's worn-smooth combat pants on his bare skin. Their movement against each other grows more emphatic; Orli's lifted onto his toes by the force of Karl's full-body writhe. Karl shoves upwards again, and Orli looses contact with the floor, pinned between the wall and Karl's pelvis. Orli wriggles around as much as the position will allow, the heat and thickness of the blood pooling in his groin becoming absolutely maddening. Orli wraps himself tightly around Karl, fingers interlaced at the nape of Karl's neck, ankles crossed below Karl's ass. Karl lifts him away from the wall.

"Bedroom?" Karl asks, glancing at the three doorways leading off the landing.

"There."

Orli jerks his chin to illustrate.

"With the chin-up bar. Of course."

Karl moves that way, but before he can step over the threshold, Orli leans back and wraps his hands around the bar above the doorway. Orli lifts himself just enough to support almost his entire bodyweight, but not enough to break the connection between his ass and Karl's cock.

"Aw … no way are you serious," Karl grins crookedly.

"Got lube?" Orli asks, shifting his grip a little.

Karl digs in the side pockets of his pants and returns triumphant with a travel-sized bottle. Karl wrestles his boots off and then his pants and then his underwear. Orli starts laughing.

"That's not the reaction I was hoping for," Karl complains, trying to suppress his own smile.

"I'm sorry. It's just – you're fuckin' gorgeous man."

Karl steps in close, pouring lube out onto his fingers and spreading it all over the head and shaft of his cock. Orli winds his legs around Karl's hips and pulls him in tight. Karl smudges another finger's worth of lube into the crease of Orli's ass, caps and drops the bottle.

There's some angling around, Orli arching and curling, hitching himself higher and then letting his weight drop and then Karl gets everything just so and –

\- they both give a low shuddering cry as Karl's cock slides into Orli's ass. Orli arches back, trying to negotiate the overwhelming burn and stretch, taking some more of his weight on his arms to control the depth of the penetration. Orli lets his head drop to one side, his eyes flicker closed, and the tendons of his wrists and forearms work as he lets his weight come down again, and Karl slides deeper, deeper and Orli starts to shake.

"Oh yeah, that's it," Karl murmurs into Orli's skin. Orli licks his lips, and slowly, slowly begins to lift and then lower, working himself carefully but completely on Karl's cock. Karl moans, taking hold of each side of the doorway to brace himself in place.

Orli's getting into it, learning the exact degree of flex and exertion it takes to lift him to the tip of Karl's cock and then drop with bone-jarring intensity down the length of Karl's shaft to grind against Karl's pubic bone.

"Oh … that's fuckin' insane," Orli pants.

Karl laughs, the sound muffled between his lips and Orli's throat. Orli's shoulders and arms start to burn from the small, slow, strictly controlled movements he's making. Karl wraps his arms around Orli's waist again, supporting him and setting a slightly faster pace.

"Gimme more ass," Karl smirks, and Orli, with a dirty grin, unwraps his legs from around Karl's waist and swings both feet up and over Karl's shoulders. Orli's body sways in a perfect pendulum, his ass meeting the root of Karl's cock with a delicious jolt each time they move together. Orli throws his head back, shifts the grip of his hands again, and circles his ass on Karl's cock. Karl hisses appreciatively.

"Fuck," Orli complains. "No tape or gloves; my hands are getting chewed up."

"Okay … hang on, we're on the move again," Karl says, pulling out of Orli's ass. Orli swings his legs down and locks them tight around Karl's hips again. Karl links his hands under Orli's ass to support his weight and walks over the threshold.

"Oh shit! FUCK!" Orli suddenly cries, thrashing in Karl's arms. "Let me down!"

"What the - "

Karl lets Orli slither out of his grip.

"Shit SHIT, we can't do this," Orli spits, digging both hands into the mess of his own hair.

"Sorry mate, but I think we just proved we can," Karl winces.

"Karl I'm so fuckin' sorry – I wasn't even thinking – I'm not Jacob."

Karl's trying, but he's not succeeding in making any sense out of this. Orli inhales, grits his teeth, does the only decent thing he can do.

"I lied to Sean, I told him my name was Jacob, but it's not. I'm Orlando."

"Or - "

"Orlando Bloom."

"The Orlando Bloom who's declared for the welterweight defense," Karl says, and it's a statement, not a question.

Orli nods.

"And Sean doesn't know. And Sean had sex with you, right?"

More nodding.

"Shit man. He's gonna kill you!" Karl laughs.

Orli laughs too, because it's pretty damn funny. Karl steps closer, takes hold of Orli's hips and pulls him in.

"Look, I don't think for one second that you're gonna go easy on me in the ring just because we screwed each other. And I'm sure as shit not gonna go easy on you. And that's all we owe anybody."

Karl's hands are all over Orli's thighs and hips and cock, and Orli grins into Karl's face. Karl takes hold of Orli's cock in one hand, and his own in the other, and starts to stroke them both, slow and smooth and tight, just the way Karl likes it. Orli puts his hands on Karl's biceps, steadying them both. They watch Karl's hands in fascination, watch their cocks hardening until stretched shiny-tight and flushed red. They breathe in a broken counter-rhythm, making small non-noises of pleasure and growing urgency.

Karl stops.

"The fuck – come on man, do it," Orli says, glaring at Karl.

Karl licks his lips, grinning wickedly, and starts again. Orli at once falls back into the rhythm, working his hips a little to increase the intensity of the sensation. His eyes flicker closed and he bites his lip.

Karl stops.

"You crazy fuck," Orli snaps, slapping Karl on the shoulder with the flat of his hand. "Do it!"

Orli's still fumbling around for the right words to express his rage when Karl starts stroking again, and it takes less than five seconds to reduce Orli to shivering compliance again.

"Oh yeah, that's it, right there man," Orli pants, leaning in enough to rest his cheek against the angle between Karl's neck and shoulder. "Right - "

"No."

"Argh!" Orli yells out his frustration.

"I want to come inside you. I want be inside you when you come."

"Then you've got one fuckin' second to saddle up, because I'm right fuckin' there."

Karl hastily steers Orli backwards to the bed, shoves him down. Orli spreads his legs, pulls his knees against his chest, drops his hand and pumps his cock hard, fingers circled tight around the ridge between head and shaft. Karl holds himself poised right at Orli's asshole. Orli arches, his breath turning sharp and shallow.

"Oh – fuck - _fuck_ \- FUCK you."

Karl pushes hard, sliding in on the tremor of Orli's climax, feeling the softness inside Orli beating like another pulse. Orli cries out, twisting so hard he almost throws Karl off. Karl shoves and thrusts and Orli cries out again, but stills enough for Karl to really establish a swift deep stabbing motion with his hips.

"Yeah, fucking come in me," Orli growls, jerking his hips in a brutal counterpoint and Karl does, spilling over the red edge of orgasm and grabbing at the back of Orli's neck and dragging their faces together and plunging his own mouth against Orli's.

"I want to do it again," Karl says after they've spent a minute or so just sweating and panting and waiting for their hearts to find their way back into their chests.

"Oh give me a fuckin' minute," Orli protests, palming the sheen of sweat off his forehead.

"I don't mean – I mean, I want to see you again," Karl tells Orli's breastbone.

"Somehow, I don't see Sean being down with that. Me being Orlando Bloom and shit," Orli says quietly.

"Sean won't know. You were Jacob; you can stay Jacob as far as he's concerned."

There's a silence.

"You're gonna lie to your trainer," Orli says wonderingly. "That's a lotta shit to take on for a guy you just met."

Karl doesn't answer, just puts his lips to the still flushed skin of Orli's chest.

"Jesus. It's not like Astin won't fucking kill me too when he finds out. Might as well be hung for sheep as a lamb," Orli sighs.

"Mmm, you said 'hung'," Karl hums, sliding slowly down Orli's body.

"You crazy fuck," Orli laughs. "I cannot _wait_ to fight you … it's gonna be so fucking good."

"Mmm hm," Karl answers.

Cut.


	20. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 20 (this part EW/BB)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 20 (this part EW/BB)** _

  


Billy has a well-developed sense of sin. Billy knows the phone number for Dom's flat, so it's with a black edge of guilt that he dials Hugo's cell phone and asks whether or not Dom's at home. Dom, it seems, is out making a thorough investigation of the pubs of the East End.

Billy pulls on his coat and leaves the office.

Cut.

Billy's pleased beyond reason that Elijah cracks the front door of the flat with the chain on.

"Billy!"

The door closes again and there's a lot of chain jingling and bolt jiggling and then the door swings wide. Elijah's barefoot in worn jeans and a 'souvenir of lovely Wales' tee shirt. His hair's tousled and he looks flushed, as if he's been napping. He moves toward Billy, puts his arms around Billy's neck and hugs him. He smells warm and young, with an undercurrent of Dom. Something bright and hungry inside Billy's chest sinks into rest now that it's close to Elijah.

"Come in," Elijah grins, finger-combing the crest of his hair into even greater disarray as he steps away from Billy.

They go through to the tiny kitchen, and Billy leans against the counter while Elijah fills the kettle.

"Elijah," Billy begins carefully.

"You didn't come here to tell me anything good," Elijah says matter-of-factly. "So, just say it."

Billy pays Elijah the compliment of taking him at his word.

"The person Dom's got to broker his bets is Ian McKellen."

The lid of the kettle strikes the edge of the stove with a ringing clatter.

"The same Ian that's going to have Dom killed if he can't pay back the twenty thousand pounds?" Elijah turns to Billy in outrage.

Billy looks at Elijah's brows and lips twist, and thinks, yes, there's room for fury on that face.

"Aye."

"That's fucking insane! What the hell does he think he's doing?"

Billy opens his mouth to answer, but really, what's the point? He closes his mouth with a click of teeth. Elijah abandons the lidless kettle on the stove.

"What do I do?" Elijah asks, staring at the counter.

"All I can think of … yehs hafta get outta here. Jus' run. I'll give yeh money, I've got about six grand that's not invested in the betting shop. Scotland's too close, and stay out of Belfast, Ian's got too many friends there. Dublin might be okay, but you should really go to Europe. Holland's nice, I was there fer mah holidays last year."

Somewhere in the course of this speech, Elijah's eyes have drifted upwards to Billy's face, and even as Billy's talking, they're staring at each in misery.

"But we'd come back right, when all this has blown over?" Elijah asks.

It takes Billy a while to circumnavigate the lump in his throat.

"Not while McKellen's still alive," he says at last. "Things don't blow over with him, ever. He's still collecting on things that happened when he was a black marketeer in the fifties. If Dom comes back … If Dom goes away and never shows his face here again, McKellen can afford to let it slide. Otherwise, no."

Elijah pulls the hem of his tee shirt over the top of his thumb, stretches it tight, lifts it to his mouth, and begins to chew a hole it in.

Billy stares at the strip of bare stomach exposed when Elijah lifts his tee shirt. Billy's sad. Just sad and so bloody tired of Dominic Monaghan.

Elijah swallows cotton fiber and lets his hand drop back into his lap.

"Okay," he whispers.

Billy has to bite his lip, has to distract himself from his insides coming apart. He tries to make himself believe that Elijah is utterly out of his reach whether he and Dom stay here or run to China.

"Billy … can I tell you something terrible?" Elijah asks very quietly.

Billy nods at once, trying to shape an expression of sympathetic understanding out of features stiff and cold with unhappiness.

"I feel like … I'm not sure I want to go with him," Elijah goes on, dropping his gaze from Billy's, so that Billy's left with the dark crescents of Elijah eyelashes against the flushed skin of Elijah's cheeks. "Is that awful?"

"No, no," Billy says very quickly, trying very hard to keep the surge of angry joy out of his voice. "It's not awful. It's a hell of a lot to expect anyone to do, just up and leave everything they know."

"It's just … I only moved here – England, I mean – eight months ago. I never really got to know anyone at school … too taken up with Dom I guess. Liv's my friend, she and Dom don't really get along, but everyone else … Astin and Daisy, Orli … they're only nice to me because they're Dom's friends."

"Liv's a lovely girl, you can trust her," Billy says inanely.

Elijah nods and smiles, but the expression won't stay on his face.

"If I leave London … I won't have anything. I won't know anyone. At least here there's school, though I never go, but at least they know I exist and where I'm _supposed_ to be … "

Billy nods.

"If we go … if we go, it'll be just me and Dom."

Billy reaches out and covers Elijah's hand with his own. The guilt roils inside him, beating against the glowing warmth he feels when he touches Elijah.

"I just … I don't know if that's … what I want," Elijah whispers.

And the devil inside Billy unfurls its wings and stretches and it would be so easy to tell Elijah the truth – that Dom's bad bloody news and if Elijah has one grain of doubt about this relationship, now's the time to bail. And Billy will remortgage his house, his shop, his bloody _soul_ and give the money to Dom and Dom can go anywhere in the entire fucking world that he likes, as long as it's far far away from Elijah.

"It's alright," Billy says, and his voice feels jagged in his throat. "You two are gonna be alright."

Elijah sniffles a smile, and sort of leans across, and Billy loops his arm around Elijah's neck and pulls him closer until Elijah's head rests under Billy's chin. Billy's allowed this, isn't he? He's not trying to take Elijah … so he's allowed this brief moment of contact, isn't he? He drops his hand to Elijah's back and rubs up down over Elijah's shoulder blade. Thin cotton moves up and down over skin, over the edge of bone and the sweet curve of muscle and flesh. Billy's skin is humming; he can feel the trickle of heat over every square millimeter of his surface … between his lips, behind his ears … between his toes.

Elijah, face half hidden in the collar of Billy's tweed coat, closes his eyes and just breathes, slow and deep. He fills himself up with Billy's smell … soap and paper and black tea … lets it soothe everything that's going wrong inside Elijah. There's a black flutter in Elijah's chest at the image of him and Dom, alone, in a strange place. Elijah won't even be able to go to Billy for help or advice or comfort. But Elijah sets that carefully aside; now's not the time to think about that shit. He'll think about it later, when Billy's gone. For now it's enough to blink his eyes open and finger the inside of Billy's coat where the satin lining meets the prickly tweed and just breathe.

Breathe.


	21. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 21/22 (DM/IM, HW/CB).

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 21/22 (DM/IM, HW/CB).** _

  


When Hugo originally moved from Australia to LA he took a job with a firm that worked security for the film industry: premieres, parties, city location shoots. Hugo thought he might like to be a movie actor himself, and it seemed like a good way to get an inside glimpse of the business and maybe meet some of the movers and shakers. Hugo didn't take very long to figure out that the movers and shakers were a bunch of idiots who didn't know enough to duck even when you yelled at them to. Hugo eventually moved on to a contract with the LAPD, providing short-term witness protection. Hugo felt a certain warmth towards the pimps and dealers and prostitutes he took care of. They were at least smart enough to be scared.

Bernard's clients are a pretty mixed bag, everything from a member of parliament suffering a bout of insecurity following a rash remark about Northern Ireland to an underwear catalogue model with an overbearing ex-husband. Hugo finds them likeable enough. Anyone with the sense to know they need protection and the discernment to go to Bernard for it is all right in Hugo's estimation.

Dominic Monaghan is an animal of a different stripe. Any sense and discernment being exercised in this situation belong to Billy Boyd, who's paying Hugo's not inconsiderable daily fee. Hugo can't help feeling a tiny bit sorry for Billy. He's obviously sensible and clear-sighted about pretty much everything except his piece-of-work ex-boyfriend. Hugo's rarely tempted to offer clients advice, but it takes a conscious exertion of will not to tell Billy to do himself a favor and just let Monaghan sink. Hugo knows about Monaghan's gambling debts and his pathetic plan to win big on some martial arts fight and his insane decision to broker his bet through the very guy that's threatening to cripple or kill him.

Hugo finds himself uncharacteristically irritated by the softness behind Billy's eyes and the faint fever stain on his cheekbones. Billy looks like love's first flush, like it's been a week rather than five years since he met _the_ guy.

Dom Monaghan, however … he doesn't create so much as a ripple in Hugo's composure. Dom's the package, and Hugo's job is to see that he doesn't get broken.

Unfortunately for Hugo, Dom seems to yearn for breakage the way a compass yearns for north. Hugo spends the evening following Dom from pub to pub, and watching as Dom becomes increasingly belligerent with the bar staff and anyone else unfortunate enough to catch his eye. More than once Hugo thinks he's going to have to step in and prevent Dom from getting himself beaten to a pulp before McKellen can even get to him. But Dom's got a remarkably effective blend of foul-mouthed posturing and smirky sarcasm going: he's pissing people off all right, but he's also apparently not worth the effort of punching.

Dom reels out of the last pub a little after nine and sets off at a determined pace. Hugo follows on the opposite side of the street. It's not easy to stay close enough to a subject to provide real protection and yet remain unnoticed. This isn't usually an issue for Hugo. The people who hire him generally want him right there. Billy, however, is anxious that Dom not find out about Billy's decision to hire Hugo. Billy is anxious that Dom not find out about Hugo at all. Hugo has an itch in his hand that he suspects bitch-slapping Billy would have soothed right away.

Hugo notices the neon-lit sign from the corner of the block: "The Black Jack Casino Club". It's hung over a dark doorway between a pub and a closed pharmacy. The Black Jack Casino Club is the one-tenth above-the-water legitimate part of Ian McKellen's business concerns.

Hugo feels the wave of cool tingling under his skin that means he is very very fucking mad indeed, but his body's already taking care of it, shutting it down, making space for the clarity that Hugo needs when a subject unilaterally decides that he _wants_ to get killed, and Hugo's job satisfaction be damned.

Dom reaches the door of the club and leans on the buzzer. The door opens, but Dom's way in is now blocked by a very large man in a very large tuxedo. Dom's gesticulating sharply, and talking a mile a minute to judge by appearances, but the other guy's not having any of it. Hugo takes his cigarettes from his pocket and tries to extract one, but he fumbles and the whole pack falls to the ground, scattering its contents. Hugo curses, then hunkers down to pick them up, glancing around for a trash can, letting his glance linger just a second on the continuing disagreement on the other side of the street.

  
 **you can read part 22 now, if you want to find out what happens dom**

There's some change in the wind, because Dom suddenly disappears through the door, which closes again behind him. Hugo stands up again, scuffs his fallen cigarettes into the gutter, and lopes across the street. He rings the door bell, and the door opens.

"Good evening," Hugo says pleasantly.

"Not a member, are you sir?"

The tone is a statement, not a question, so Hugo knows there's no point in prevarication.

"No, I'm not."

"Then I'll have to ask you to sign the guest book at the top of the stairs, if you'd be so kind."

"Of course."

Hugo signs the book "Hugo Weaving" because worse things could happen than McKellen finding out Dom's no longer such a soft target. Provided, of course, Hugo manages to get Dom out of here in one piece.

Hugo makes his way through to the lounge just in time to catch a glimpse of Dom disappearing through a door marked "Employees Only", in pursuit of a slender blond in a black dress. Either Billy's been holding out on Hugo or there's a great deal more to the situation than Billy realizes. Hugo's confident that Billy's told Hugo everything he knows. That means Dom's holding out on Billy (which sounds about right), and Hugo's disinclined to follow Dom into the unknown. Dom walked in here of his own free will, and is apparently being welcomed by someone with more authority than the hominid in the evening suit at the door. Hugo feels reasonably sure Dom will be leaving under his own steam, rather than being dumped out the back door in a sack.

Hugo sits up at the bar and orders a short bourbon and a packet of cigarettes. He's just signed his tab when the "Employees Only" door opens again and the blonde comes back out. Hugo doesn't look directly at her but he's aware of her coming in his direction, and settling on the stool two down from his.

The barman hurries to take her order, then bustles a bit with a heavy tumbler and ice and a vodka bottle. Hugo lets his gaze flip casually in her direction.

There's a split second where Hugo seems to recognize his own reflection – the almost static set of eyelids over steel blue eyes.

Then Hugo blinks and lifts his glass, but his reflection doesn't. She looks away, accepting her drink from the solicitous bar man. Hugo looks away too, suddenly interested in the matchbook that came with his cigarettes. He's still processing the image he's caught: every line of her posture composed and collected, the way her bluntly cut pale hair slides across her slim neck, the way her clothes and jewelry have the cherished beauty of sharp weaponry.

He doesn't let himself take so much as another glimpse, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the mirror-backed bar display instead. His unusually acute peripheral vision tells him that she's resting her forearms on the bar top and staring fixedly into the mirror just as he is. Hugo slows his breath deliberately, and tries to exude quietness.

The "Employees Only" swings open again, and Dom comes out.

He looks like shit, a very specific kind of shit. His hair's tousled beyond its normal stylistic mess, his eyes are bloodshot and unusually dark, his lips are reddened and swollen, and the skin of his throat is already darkening into plum colored bruises. Sex-specific shit.

 _Curiouser and curiouser_ , Hugo thinks.

Dom passes the bar and crosses the lounge and goes out through the glass doors and disappears into the stairwell. Hugo doesn't get up right away, partly to avoid attracting attention to himself, and partly because he's now pretty sure that the only danger Dom's in from McKellen is of getting soundly buggered when he's not quite expecting it. When he finally does push his glass away and gather up his cigarettes and step down from his bar stool, his glance rebelliously slides back to the woman with the razor eyes.

She feels his glance on her, and turns her head to return his stare. Hugo moves his head a fraction of an inch, a gesture toward a nod. The corners of her eyes and mouth tighten, the answering suggestion of a smile.

As Hugo strides across the lounge on his way out, he's aware of an unaccustomed warmth right in the center of his chest, like he's just signed off successfully on a job. He wonders what the hell that's about.

  



	22. "I'm not lettin' you in. You're banned f

"I'm not lettin' you _in_. You're banned from 'ere fifty different ways. Mister McKellen don't need any more of your business thanks. You're loud you're obnoxious you're a bad debter and you're not wearin' a tie. Go home."

Dom opens his mouth and inhales the breath with which to hawk a gob of phlegm in riposte. Thankfully he hasn't actually completed the gesture when he sees Cate standing at the top of the stairway leading from the door to the club's entryway.

"Let him in," Cate says, in a tone better suited to 'kill him now'.

Dom gives the bouncer a huge shit-eating grin for his trouble, and hops up the stairs two steps at a time, giving the security camera on the ceiling two fingers as he passes directly under its winking eye.

"Cate, my razor-toothed Vestal of the deeps," Dom beams. "Boss around is he?"

Cate looks at Dom for a long beat, then turns and moves across the carpeted entryway with its gilt mirrors and glass doors leading into the club proper. Dom shrugs and follows.

Cate is wearing what Dom dimly suspects is referred to as a 'gown', rather than a dress. It cuts severely across her collarbones and slants away from her shoulders to leave her arms bare. The fabric is densely black and ripples like water; diamonds flash at her ears and wrist, brighter and colder than sunshine on melting ice.

Cate cuts a smooth path through the bar and lounge area with Dom swimming gamely in her wake. Dom glances around himself, feeling the familiar jitter of excitement he has always associated with this place. The plush carpet and elaborately old-fashioned mahogany front-bar, the low tables and deep armchairs, the floral displays and brass-buttoned wait-staff are all cues to Dom's well-trained system: prompts to place a bet, spin the wheel, be lucky. A few punters make the mistake of glancing at Dom and making some facial motion suggesting disapproval of his appearance. Dom winks or sticks out his tongue at them, though he also stays close to Cate.

They go through to the back hall and up the second flight of stairs that leads to Ian's office. Cate knocks once, and opens the door without waiting for a reply. She crosses the threshold, then stops and ushers Dom forward.

Ian's 'office' is really a large sitting room. The decor's very light and modern in a functional, faintly whimsical way. Ian, in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, is poking at the small fire burning in the large fireplace.

"Dominic," he says flatly, putting down the fire iron and dusting his hands off on each other.

Cate begins to withdraw from the room.

"Cate, dearest, do come here for a moment," Ian says.

Cate almost flinches, but obediently goes to him. Ian takes hold of her right hand and lifts it to his pursed lips. Cate's rigid deportment seems to suddenly melt, and she's all slender bones and bird-thin tendons and much much younger than Dom ever realized.

"You are very good, and very indulgent with me," Ian murmurs, and Cate flashes him a bashful smile.

Ian gives her another little peck on the hand and shoos her away. She turns, and there's a good two seconds during which Dom is stunned by the softness and warmth in Cate's eyes. Then her glance falls on him, and a shutter slams down in her somewhere, and her eyes are once again the flints he's used to.

The sound of Cate closing the door behind her works on Dom like the ring of the new-round bell does on Orli.

"Look McKellen, I don't know what the fuck you think our deal is or was, but you do _not_ fucking _own_ me. Nobody _owns_ me. Twenty grand! Yeah, you're a real high roller if you think twenty-grand buys you more than a good suit and a steak dinner," Dom rages, advancing on Ian. "I've got until the end of the month to pay you; until then, you just need to stay the fuck off my back – stay the fuck out of my life."

"Dominic, you're drunk," Ian says wearily, making to pass Dom.

Dom shifts quickly to block him.

"Dead right I'm drunk, drunk as a fucking tinker. But y'know what? It's not fucking helping. I'm still pissed off that you think you can just play your sick fucking games on me. Stop trying to _fuck with my head_!"

Ian considers Dom for long enough to make Dom wish he'd stop.

"You act like you're the all-seeing God, but you don't know the first fucking thing about me," Dom says. "You don't."

"But I do," Ian says, and lifts one of his charcoal eyebrows. "I don't just know you, Dominic, I've _been_ you."

Dom's gaze slides away from Ian's face.

"It's forty years ago, but I can still taste it," Ian says, and his voice is like falling into a velvet bed. "Pushing against everything, everyone, pushing as hard as you can and hoping someone will push back. Because you need there to be someone as strong as you, stronger, because it's frightening to think that you're alone in the world … the only god among all these mortals."

Dom's heart does a jagged sideways slam, but he resists the urge to look at Ian.

"That's what you think you are, isn't it? A little god," Ian goes on. "Because when you win, it isn't just that you picked the right fighter or the right horse or the right card. You _made_ it _happen_. You're sure your fighter will win because he's _your_ fighter. He'll win because you _bet_ on him to win."

Dom's heart is pounding and his stomach is squeezing and his fingers twitch for want of a chip or a card or a betting slip.

"I know what it's like, Dominic. Betting ten grand on a single spin at roulette, when you've got another ten grand in a carrier bag, that's good. Betting ten quid that you got pawning your nan's best teeth and knowing if you lose you'll be walking home from the racecourse, that's the best. Throwing it all into the abyss and jumping in after it … fly or fall."

Dom realizes he's breathing hard, panting in fact, and his pulse is fucking slamming in his wrists and head and throat and chest and –

\- shit, it's just fucking unnatural but – yes, if he shifts his weight even a little there's a wash of starlight tingle through his groin that confirms he is indeed getting hard.

Dom yanks his eyes back to Ian's weirdly depthless sea-blue stare.

"Take care, Dominic," Ian says coldly. "I do push back – a great deal harder than you might like."

Dom's anger is surging up from the pit of hell, through his veins and nerves and fibers, because he's on fire in flames in agony and Ian's just _not_ , just cold and quiet and so very fucking sure of himself.

"You don't scare me," Dom snaps, and his voice is shaking like he's about to burst into tears. "You don't fucking scare me, you crazy old bitch. You can't fucking touch me, can you?"

 _Impact_

There's a nanosecond where Dom assumes Ian just hit him with a brick wall, and then a second where he thinks he's been decapitated, except his head's still on. So he's proud when he figures out what's actually happened: Ian has him by the throat.

Breathing. Oxygen. Shit.

Dom flashes on those wank-boys who accidentally hang themselves from their own belts doing the auto asphyxiation thing. Wank. The blood's all rushing to his groin. Double shit.

Dom claws and pries at Ian's hand, but it's terrifyingly like the time an adolescent Dom punched a wall in angry frustration. He'd found a certain relief in plaster walls before, but this time he misjudged and went for the concrete and cinderblock outside wall. Some things you just can't beat. Ian's old and spoiled and hires guys to do his fighting for him. He's also strong as shit, bigger and taller than Dom, and not full of booze.

Ian abruptly shoves Dom off. Dom doubles over, coughing and gasping and clutching his throat. The skin is hot, the flesh beneath exquisitely tender, and when Dom swallows he feels a pang under the angle of his jaw.

"I am gonna fucking … "

Dom never finishes the threat, just launches himself at Ian. Ian takes a half step back but Dom's already on him, one fist twisted into the front of Ian's shirt and the other in Ian's hair. Dom thrusts his face at Ian's and their open mouths meet with a jarring impact of teeth. Dom is clawing at Ian, hair and shoulders and back, trying to force his way inside Ian's skin. Ian takes quick hold of Dom's face and tries to impose some mite of order on the situation, at least angling Dom's jaw so that their kiss fits together right.

Ian's tongue is wise and wicked, and Ian's teeth are sharp and unsympathetic. Dom realizes that he's crying, hot salt streams running down each cheek and insinuating their way into the junction between his mouth and Ian's. Dom's making noises, noises that have no names because they're more sexual than moans, more placatory than whimpers, and more frantic than sobs.

Ian puts Dom firmly away from him. Dom clutches at Ian, trying to bring him back into the kiss.

"Please – no – Ian - "

"Go home Dominic," Ian says, palming the sweat damp strands of hair off Dom's forehead. "Go away and don't ever come back, and I won't have to hurt you."

Dom can see the glinting edges turning and turning behind Ian's eyes. It is time to go, even though the rest of the world is gray and flat and ashy, while Ian's a pit of flame and fear.


	23. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 23

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 23** _

We're back! Did ya miss us???

Dom stumbles out onto the street, clawing his tie down and his collar open, wanting to fill his lungs with clean and cold to bring himself back into focus. But the night air's unseasonably thick and clammy, and Dom can't even hear over his heart's pounding and his blood's humming. He starts walking, moving quickly but with no destination in mind, just trying to outdistance the thing scratching beneath his skin.

Dom lets himself into the flat a little after midnight, with no recollection of when or where he made the decision to come home, just a distant awareness of his throbbing feet and aching body. He goes straight through to the sitting room. He respreads the blanket on the couch and retrieves the pillow from the armchair and strips right there. He goes into the bathroom, pisses and wipes his face with cold water. It's only as he's turning out the light and leaving the room that he notices Elijah's sleeping pills standing on the back of the sink in silent reproach.

Dom lies down and pulls the blanket around him. He feels like he'll never sleep, his nerves jangling under his skin and his eyes stinging every time he closes them. But the alcohol's burning low in his blood now, and his incipient hangover is thick in his head, and before he knows it he's sinking down into the nothing.

He dreams about Ian. Dom's subconscious is mercilessly direct; there are no snakes or stiletto blades or cigars. There's Ian, cold-eyed and cruel, fucking Dom so slowly and deeply and ruthlessly, and the pleasure is so wrenchingly intense that it wakes Dom to the warm slither of his semen across his thigh.

Cut.

Dom wakes again to dusty sunlight. He throws the blanket back and drags himself onto his feet. He's hung-over, but not so very badly. Mostly he just feels shitty – shaky and sore and sick of himself. He stumbles into the bathroom. Elijah's already there, shirtless, leaning over the sink and peering into the mirror as he rubs coconut wax into the squeaky damp quills of his hair. Dom comes up behind him, and Elijah's head jerks and he nails Dom with a sapphire hard glance of disgust.

"Nice of you to stop by," he tells Dom's reflection.

He turns round, ready to give Dom a real piece of his mind, but his glance falls on the necklace of black-red bruises surrounding Dom's throat like a collar.

"Oh Jesus – Dom? What happened?" Elijah cries.

Dom's hand flies to his neck, fingers splayed in a vain attempt to cover up the extent of the damage.

"It's okay, it's nothing, nothing happened," Dom says hastily.

"Dom it's not _nothing_ ," Elijah pleads, prizing Dom's hand out of the way again. "Oh Christ, who did this to you?"

Dom shakes his head vigorously.

Elijah looks pained, but doesn't press the point.

"Baby let's just _go_ ," he says. "Let's just leave and go somewhere McKellen can't find us."

Dom frowns in confusion.

"Bil – I can borrow money, like, maybe six thousand pounds. That's enough right?" Elijah goes on, growing increasingly desperate in the face of Dom's dull refusal to react. "We could go somewhere – anywhere – Holland. Holland sounds great. Please."

"I'm not goin' anywhere," Dom says, putting Elijah off and moving past him to the sink.

"Dom – this is fucking _insane_! Please baby. Just – I don't ask you for shit, but just this once, for me - "

"I don't run," Dom tells his reflection. "I don't fuckin' run from anyone."

Abruptly Elijah finds the boundary between frustration and anger.

"For fuck's sake, Dom, what are you _doing_? Are you actually actively _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

"I said," Dom grinds angrily, "I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying here. Orli's going to win his fight, an' I'm gonna give McKellen his twenty grand and tell him to shove it up his fucking arse. It's not your problem, Elijah."

For a second Elijah can only stare in stunned silence, but then he regathers himself.

"You know what, Dom? Screw you. Just _screw you_ ," he yells, before walking out of the bathroom and leaving Dom still staring at himself in the mirror, considering the way the marks under his eyes make the gray of his irises look flatter than ever.

Cut.

Elijah takes three minutes to pull on his clothes, round up his smokes and phone, and slam out of the flat. Once he's out on the street, he dials Liv's cell phone, but of course it's turned off while she's working. Elijah calls Craig's office number to see if he knows where Liv is today. Craig directs him to a car dealership in north London, and enquires gently if everything is okay.

"Just boyfriend trouble," Elijah says lightly, though he knows that Craig knows something must be seriously wrong for Elijah to call him at the paper.

"Ah," Craig says, with the finality of one who has never had a boyfriend, let alone boyfriend trouble. "Well … good luck with that."

Elijah takes a taxicab across the city. He has a fairly good notion of the bus route, and a pocketful of coins, but he's sick of acting like a Londoner. He flags the cab down with a New York whistle, and spends the ride staring out of the window and trying to remember when these gray streets seemed foreign and romantic to him.

He pays the cab and at once spots Liv, in a mini-skirted sugar pink business suit and attended by four guys respectively managing a steady cam, a sound boom, a big white reflector, and a clipboard. Elijah weaves his way through a sea of shiny cars. Liv's wearing her hair up in a kooky imitation of a librarian's bun, and she has a pair of lens-less black spectacles perched on her nose.

" … only two hundred and thirty nine pounds a month, and no money down," Liv coos to the camera, her long tapered fingers caressing the wing mirror of the car she's pimping. "That's no money down and you can take her home with you today."

"Gorgeous Liv darlin'. How about the convertible? Let's get her sitting in the convertible with the top down – Manny, run get us the keys for the silver convertible, yeah?"

"Hey," Elijah says in greeting.

"Sugar plum – what are you doing here?" Liv asks. "Are you okay?"

Elijah shrugs and smiles wanly.

"How did you even know I was here?" Liv presses.

"I called Craig," Elijah admits. Liv recognizes an emergency when she sees it.

"Guys, how 'bout we break for lunch? We can get the convertible later, can't we?" she asks sweetly.

The director frowns at Elijah, rightly blaming him for this break in Liv's usually impeccable concentration. But Liv's always so easy to work with that it seems churlish to refuse her, so he nods and shrugs.

"Yeah, we've still got a few hours good light. Let's take forty-five minutes and then we'll pick up at the convertible."

"Thanks, you're a prince," Liv smiles, darting a quick peck onto his cheek.

She and Elijah find a coffee shop with diner pretensions across the street from the car dealership. Liv orders a large salad and Elijah, after a good scolding about neglecting to eat, a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. The service is slow enough that Elijah has time to tell Liv all about it: about Dom and the twenty thousand pounds and McKellen and Billy's advice to get the hell out of town and Dom's insistence on staying.

Liv leans forward, taking hold of Elijah's hand and squeezing hard.

"Believe me, Billy knows what he's talking about; if he's telling you to leave, then _leave_."

"I just told you, Dom won't - "

"You know what? Screw Dom, just _screw him_ ," Liv snaps, and Elijah can't help but smile joylessly at the way she's echoing his exact choice of words. "Go home angel baby. I can give you the money for your plane ticket; go home to your mom, she's gotta be worried sick about you."

Elijah's mouth quirks in small rueful smile.

"I can't leave London, not now."

"Elijah! Dom's only - "

"It's not about Dom," Elijah cuts in, as if Liv's being particularly obtuse. "It's – hell – I just can't, okay?"

"What do you mean, 'it's not about Dom'?" Liv demands.

Elijah shrugs wearily.

"I think Dom and I might be over. It's like we're strangers; we hardly even look at each other unless we're fucking. And, God knows, the sex is incredible, but … "

"You want more than that."

"I'm turning into a girl."

"It's worse; you're turning into an adult."

Elijah snorts out a short but genuine laugh.

"Puppy, do me a favor," Liv says more seriously. "Don't go back to the flat today. Go somewhere else, and I'll call you this evening, okay?"

Elijah frowns in confusion.

"What do you - "

" _Please_ , just do it, huh? I'll worry about you if I know you're with Dom, and I can't work right if I'm worried."

"Okay. Okay."

"Good."

Cut.

"Hey stranger," Liv says around the edge of Billy's office door.

"Gawd! Liv Tyler – come on in, princess," Billy laughs, getting up from his desk and coming to meet her. "Gorgeous as ever," he marvels, drawing her in by her two hands. "Did yeh get even taller or did I jus' get shorter?"

Liv's out of her car commercial drag and back into her street clothes, faded jeans, a primly buttoned up wool coat and a fluffy crochet scarf.

"Don' sit down there, take my chair, it's way better. Are yeh well? Yeh look well. An' that scribbler Craig Parker, how's he? Treating yeh right, I trust?"

"He's fine, and yes, we're very happy together."

"Aw, see now, that's nice," Billy beams, sitting down in the chair on the visitors' side of his desk.

"What about you Billy?" Liv asks speculatively. "Anyone new?"

"Och, I think I've made enough of a horse's arse outta mehself over a man already, don' you?" Billy says, but he can't hide the flush coloring his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

"I'm here to talk about Elijah," she says evenly.

Billy's head jerks up and he stares at her with mingled interest and wariness.

"Is he - "

"He's fine," Liv says, waving one hand dismissively. "But Dom refuses to leave London and now Elijah says he won't go either."

Billy's shoulders sag.

"Jesus. Dom's just - "

"Elijah also says he and Dom are over."

Billy looks at her, hope widening his eyes.

"But Dom came home last night looking like someone had tried to strangle him. I think Ian's getting impatient," Liv goes on.

Billy heaves a bitter sigh and scrubs his face with his hands.

"Yeh don' know the half of it," he says wearily. "I hired a fella works for Bernard Hill, tah keep an eye on Dom. Turns out, last night Dom went to The Black Jack, walked in of his own accord, and came back out looking like shite – sexed up shite."

Liv puts both hands flat on her stomach, as if physically holding in the jab of panic there.

"Oh Christ – but Dom knows, he knows what McKellen did to you, he can't think he's going to get off easy just because he lets McKellen - "

"I know – I fuckin' _know_ that Liv," Billy cries, thrusting up out of his seat and pacing furiously back and forth across the small room. "But Dom's as fucked up as Ian, he probably thinks this is some big pissin' competition."

Billy forces himself to a standstill, and takes a couple of long deep breaths.

"A'right. If Dom's tryin' to play Ian, then Elijah's not safe as long as he's in that flat."

"I told him not to go back."

"Good girl. Can yeh put him up for tonight?"

Liv nods emphatically.

"Do you think it's safe for him to go back, to get a few of his things?"

Billy considers for a second.

"Aye, but go with him. McKellen's lads would never start anythin' in front of a witness."

Liv nods again.

"A'right. Longer term than that … ah, fuck it anyway," Billy grimaces, lifting the phone over to the side of the desk he's sitting at. "May God strike meh dead for an oath-breaker."

"Billy?"

Billy lifts the receiver and dials a single number.

"Sala? Call around fer meh, I need twenty grand in cash by close of business today … don' take any guff from the feckers, they know I'm good fer it, and I'd do as much fer them if they were stuck. Good man."

"Billy," Liv says again, in growing dismay. "What are you going to do?"

"What else can I do? I'm goin' tah give Ian his money an' hope that's enough fer him to unhook his claws from Dom."

Cut.


	24. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 24 (this part OB/EW NC-17)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 24 (this part OB/EW NC-17)** _

  


Generally, if Elijah needs a break from Dom he just stays in the flat. Dom's always got some bit of business to attend to, so he's never home in the afternoons or evenings. When Elijah needs a break from the flat, he wastes a day trawling through the record stores and secondhand book dealers and charity shops. Very occasionally Elijah takes refuge in Astin's gym, drawing comfort from Astin's American accent, and the quietly tender affection between Astin and Daisy, and Orli's laughing good humor.

Elijah gets to the gym and goes straight to the back training room. Astin and Orli are in the ring, in boxing gloves and protective headgear; Daisy hangs on the ropes. The three of them are arguing about the weird little shift of his weight-bearing heel that Orli always makes when he snap-kicks. Astin says Orli has to stop doing it. Orli insists that he can't help it. Daisy says he's been on the receiving end of that kick and it's a truck, so why change it?

Daisy sees Elijah and climbs down from the ring to join Elijah on the bench.

"Hey kiddo," Daisy says in greeting.

"Hey."

Astin and Orli return to their sparring. They're taking it easy, just sketching movements at each other, and Elijah watches with interest.

"Orli's starting to look pretty convincing, yeah?" Daisy says.

Elijah just shrugs and smiles in response. To his untutored eye Orli doesn't look significantly different than when he began training six months ago. He's more heavily muscled, and his hair's a little longer and curlier, but he moves with the same liquid-limbed ease and still grins like the Cheshire Cat. He's also still the handsomest boy Elijah's ever seen in real life.

Astin and Orli give up. Astin climbs out of the ring while Orli does his trademark head-over-heels unwind over the topmost rope.

"It's five, we need to get ready for the after-work crowd," Astin says to Daisy.

Daisy stands and they both go out to the front of the gym. Orli takes Daisy's place on the bench, pulls off his headgear with his awkward gloved hands and shakes out his flattened curls. He tugs on the laces of his right glove with his teeth.

"Damn it. Knot," he grimaces, offering the red-leather clad inside of his wrist to Elijah. "Do me a favor, yank that open, yeah?"

Elijah, without meeting Orli's glance, goes to work on the glove lace. His small fingers quickly solve the snarl in the cord.

"Thanks man."

Orli pulls off that glove and starts on the other.

"So when are you gonna give in an' let me show you somethin'?" Orli asks. He's gotten the second glove off and is starting to pick at the tape around his fingers.

Elijah blushes. Orli never seems to be teasing about this, but the idea of Elijah learning to fight is plainly ridiculous.

"I don't think that's me," Elijah says at last.

Orli looks at him sidelong.

"See, that's not what I get from you," he says, unwrapping his hand.

Elijah shrugs, and Orli switches to his other hand, the process going quickly now that he's got free use of one set of fingers.

"Do you wanna … get a beer or something?" Orli asks.

"Yes, yes I do," Elijah says in slight surprise, because yes, he does want a beer and yes, Orli is fucking gorgeous and yes, Elijah's very tired of emptying himself heart and soul into Dom.

Cut.

"Have a seat, I'll find a bottle opener," Orli says, kicking the front door shut behind him and setting the twelve pack down on the coffee table.

Elijah shrugs his jacket off and drops into one corner of the couch. He drags the box towards him and starts ripping into the cardboard to extract a couple of bottles.

"Here, we can drink our way outta trouble," Orli smiles, putting the bottle opener down on the table and sitting next to Elijah.

Elijah opens both bottles and passes one to Orli.

"Good plan."

They drink beer, and the conversation idles over music and movies and what the hell Astin's got up his butt, even though he's the greatest guy on earth. Elijah's so fucking turned on he can hardly stand it. He's sitting on this unfamiliar couch, inhaling the warm skin smell of a man who isn't Dom. Orli's long legs in their faded jeans are stretched out, and Orli's long body in its thin tee shirt is arched back among the cushions, and Orli's dark curls and dark eyes and dark smile are all right here. When Elijah lets himself think that something – just some slight thing – could easily happen between them, a sweet pang of pleasure shoots through his guts.

Elijah realizes that he's staring, and drops his gaze. Orli's fingers are caged lightly over the bulge of his groin, the tip of his thumb moving ever so slightly against one particular spot. Elijah's glance flashes back to Orli's face, to Orli's quirky little smile and the questioning lift of Orli's eyebrows.

"It's okay if you don't - "

"I do," Elijah says quickly. "I absolutely do."

"Turnabout, huh?" Orli grins, but it doesn't make any sense to Elijah, especially not when Orli's taking the beer bottle out of Elijah's hand and setting it down on the table.

It occurs to Elijah that maybe Orli's talking about them switching off, top and bottom, and Elijah's heart lurches and his mouth waters. Elijah makes a small bleating noise in the back of his throat and Orli moves in and Elijah just lets himself fall back among the cushions, his legs dropping open and making a place for Orli.

"Yeah," Orli purrs against Elijah's mouth and then they're all over each other, clutching and clawing and kissing, Elijah wrapping his legs around Orli's hips and Orli pushing his erection into the space between Elijah's legs.

Elijah just can't believe what his hands are telling him. Orli is so different from Dom's lean flesh and sharp bones; Orli is dense curves and thick tendons like satin cords.

"You're so fuckin' _sweet_ ," Orli smiles against Elijah's open mouth, and there's clothes coming off somehow, and the heat of Orli's bare skin on his.

"Not here," Orli murmurs, when they've managed to fumble each other's jeans open and they're just – just – about to touch, and Elijah's already jerking his hips under Orli and Orli's leaning down hard on Elijah.

Elijah, half dazed with lust, lets Orli pull him to his feet and guide him upstairs and into the bedroom. It feels so exotic for Elijah to lift his arms high and wrap them around Orli's wide bare shoulders, to let his head fall right back and have Orli swoop down and cover Elijah's mouth with his own. Still wound around each other, they manage to find the edge of the bed and ease down onto it.

"You ever fucked someone?" Orli asks, finally working his hand into the front of Elijah's jeans and taking hold of him.

"Some. Not much. Dom likes it sometimes," Elijah pants in time to the thrusts he's making into Orli's fist.

"I want you to fuck me," Orli breathes, squeezing a little tighter and forcing Elijah to slow down.

Orli abandons him and stands up and shucks his jeans and shorts.

Elijah wriggles frantically out of his own jeans and underwear. Orli moves away, opening and closing a drawer, then returns to the bed and tosses down a bottle of lube and a black dildo.

"We're gonna be fucking great together, Elijah," Orli smiles, climbing back onto the bed.

Elijah doesn't doubt it for a second, since there are already dark red fireworks going off under his skin where Orli's hard palms are whispering over Elijah's thighs and hips, stomach and nipples. Elijah wonders if he's supposed to find something else in the mess of pleasure, something manly, something masterful. If he's going to do the fucking, shouldn't he also be the one guiding them?

But the truth is, Elijah's coming unraveled under Orli's skillful hands, his body melting and opening and wanting so badly he aches. Orli cups the two sides of Elijah's ass in his hands and separates them slightly. The touch of the air on his hole is enough to make Elijah arch and bend his knees and drop his legs open. Orli leans away to one side and Elijah hears the flip and click of the lube bottle and the tiny wet sound of Orli's fingers sliding against each other. Elijah moans and lifts his hips.

Orli forms a loose half-fist and nudges his index and middle knuckles against the satin soft pucker of Elijah's asshole. Elijah bites his lip, not quite stifling a sound of desperation. Orli works his hand in slow deep circles, coaxing Elijah open without any actual penetration.

"Okay?"

Elijah swallows hard and nods quickly. Orli pushes the top joint of his thumb into Elijah alongside his knuckles.

"More?"

Elijah nods again, his breath going in rapid shallow spurts. Orli pushes his thumb and knuckles apart, and unfurls his fingers into Elijah's hole. Elijah jerks hard. Orli circles his fingers, giving Elijah lots of stimulation but still none of the penetration Elijah's craving.

Orli takes his fingers away and Elijah makes a mournful little sound. Orli shushes him and reaches across him for the dildo.

"Do you want it?"

"Yes!"

"Then lube it up."

Elijah grabs it from Orli, scrabbles for the bottle of lube, and coats the dildo shaft as quick as he can. Orli can't help smiling at Elijah's scowl of impatience.

"Done," Elijah says sharply, snapping the lube bottle closed.

Orli leans in, taking the dildo back and pushing Elijah back down. He pulls a couple of pillows over and Elijah stuffs them under his pelvis, lifting his ass a little higher. Elijah lets his legs fall open again.

Orli turns his back to Elijah and straddles Elijah's legs, knees on either side of Elijah's hips. Elijah's presented with the pale cord of scar tissue between Orli's shoulder blades, and Orli's lean flanks.

"You still got the lube back there?" Orli asks.

"Yeah," Elijah says, around a mouthful of thickly pounding heart.

"Do me up."

Elijah fumbles blindly with the bottle cap, panting and stifling all kinds of embarrassing noises as Orli's slick-chilled fingers part the cheeks of Elijah's ass and Elijah feels the big blunt tip of the dildo nudging at his hole. Elijah inhales hard, but he knows it's going to be okay because every fiber of his body has turned to honey except for the hardness throbbing at the head of his cock.

"Come on, catch up back there," Orli says over his shoulder.

Elijah wrenches the lid off the lube bottle and spills out too much of the shimmering liquid and manages to wrestle the lid back on. He spreads the lube between his hands and Orli bends forward and Elijah plays his fingers along the crease of Orli's ass and over the underside of Orli's balls. Orli makes a deliciously pathetic sound.

Elijah puts his fingers to Orli's hole. The pressure of the dildo at his own opening increases a little. Elijah circles his fingers, testing the surrounding muscles. The dildo circles too. Elijah's head drops back and he exhales hard as the rules of the game become apparent: he can get what he wants by doing it to Orli.

What Elijah wants is to feel the thickness of the dildo slide into him, smooth and slow and sure. He wants it to twist a little. He wants it to tip forward in his pelvis, pressing against the front wall of his gut, filling his groin with weight and a phantom need to piss that adds an urgent edge to everything else. He wants it to pump, swift and slick, and drive his breath out of his lungs in gasps and grunts.

"Oh fuck. Yes," Orli moans, his spine flexing and curling at Elijah's fingers inside him, translating every move through the dildo inside Elijah. "Do it for real Elijah. Fuck me."

Elijah withdraws his fingers and grips his cock and wriggles around under Orli to get them lined up right. Elijah pushes up and Orli leans down and it is way too much, Elijah snarling and squirming and pumping his hips and Orli giving it all back to him. This is the perfect fuck, Elijah pinned down by Orli's weight yet completely in control, setting the rhythm and angle and depth. Every little twist and grind and shove that Elijah wants he gets by giving it to Orli.

Elijah's an orgasm waiting to happen, every inch of his skin tingling sharply, his whole body stretched tight and spread thin, his blood pounding in his veins and spunk squirming in his balls. He closes his small hands over Orli's hips, bitten fingertips digging into smooth skin. Orli's making hoarse panic-stricken sounds, working his ass in fierce counterpoint to Elijah's movement. The tendons and muscles of his right arm dance from shadow to light and back as he pumps the dildo in Elijah's ass.

"Shit Fuck I'm gonna come," Elijah cries.

"Do it."

He does, spasming and sobbing and feeling fucking tears streaming down his face and Orli pushing and pushing the dildo up inside him and the waves of orgasm coming slow and strong. Elijah claws at the bedclothes, his body wringing itself out to utter completion.

For a few minutes there's nothing but the thunder of Elijah's heart and the silk squirm of Orli's body around Elijah's softening cock.

"Get off me," Elijah urges, and Orli lifts up.

Elijah hisses at the spangle of electricity along his nerves, and he reaches down between his legs and slides the dildo out and that's another lazy glitter of sensation. Orli rolls over onto his back and Elijah kneels between his legs, guides him to fold one thigh in close against his chest. The dildo goes up Orli's ass in one smooth rush, and Orli throws his head back and groans. Orli's cock, heavy and half-hard, firms up as Elijah starts a smooth swift stroke that penetrates deeply. Elijah settles his weight on one elbow, ducks his head, and takes Orli's cock in his mouth.

It barely takes a minute, and Orli tenses thrashes stills, and Elijah feels Orli's orgasm everywhere, tongue and throat and touch. Orli sprawls, shaking and smiling, and Elijah lazily licks up some of the mess. Orli's heel slides across Elijah's shoulder blades as Elijah lets the dildo slip free and laps up the sugary lube from under Orli's balls and around Orli's hole. Orli makes sleepy sounds of pleasure.

"I'm all for a friendly fuck," Orli murmurs, his arm thrown across his eyes as if he's too tired to see. "But, shit, what is Dom looking for fuckin' around that he doesn't already have at home? You're a stunner, Lij."

Elijah eases back onto his knees, holding his breath, waiting for the pain to hit. Orli, alerted by the silence, takes his arm away and sees Elijah staring at him with eyes as flat and bright as blue enamel. Orli struggles up into a sit, dawning dismay in every line of his expression.

"You didn't know," he says. "Fuck it! You didn't _know_!"

Elijah turns his head from side to side slowly.

"Shit!"

Orli moves impulsively towards him, his first instinct to touch Elijah, but then he backs off again, as if suddenly remembering that they're naked and they just fucked and Elijah didn't even know about Orli and Dom.

"Elijah – I'm so fucking sorry man," Orli insists. "I thought – Christ. He's your boyfriend; I thought it was okay between you guys."

Elijah tries to think of something to say because he can see that his stunned silence is painful for Orli and Orli doesn't deserve that. From the pocket of Elijah's discarded denims comes the insistent trill of his cell-phone. Elijah makes an apologetic face and hauls himself off the bed. His legs are still shaking, and everything below his waist feels used in the best possible way.

"Yeah?"

"Tell me you didn't go back to the flat," Liv says accusingly.

Elijah goes back to the bed, unfolding beside Orli, letting the contact between their bare skins convey Orli's absolution.

"Liv? No, I'm with Orli."

"Hey Liv," Orli says, his mouth close enough to the phone for Liv to catch the blurred quality of his voice.

"Oh you did _not_ ," Liv hisses.

"Actually I think I did," Elijah says unsteadily.

"Oh for – that's not helping, Elijah. Put your clothes on and make the big goober take you to get what you need from the flat, then have him drop you at my place. Promise me – you won't go on your own."

"I promise," Elijah says, tilting his head under Orli's gently stroking fingers.

Liv makes an indescribable noise and hangs up.

"You okay?" Orli asks.

"Yeah," Elijah says, tossing his phone on the bed and turning more fully into Orli's arms.

Oddly, he's not even lying that much.

Cut.


	25. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 25 (this part DM(IM), DM/SB NC-17).

  
  
  
  
  


**Current mood:**

| 

  
productive  
  
---|---  
  
Dom remains transfixed by the bathroom mirror until he hears Elijah slam out of the front door. He walks back into the sitting room and sits down on the couch alongside the tangled blanket and flattened pillow.

Dom feels bad. He feels bad because he's losing Elijah, and he can't seem to do anything about it. Can't even seem to care the way he should. Elijah's a sweet sweet kid, and a crackerjack fuck, and he and Dom have had a lot of fun together. Really, if Elijah's thinking about leaving, he deserves to have Dom on his knees pleading for forgiveness, promising to make amends, begging Elijah to stay.

Dom can even imagine how, under different circumstances, he might scavenge around for a job, and cut back on the fucking around, and tell Elijah he should go to class sometimes. If it were a different world; if he were a different Dominic …

… if there weren't the little matter of Ian's twenty grand, standing between Dom and a regular life.

Dom stretches lazily, his wiry arms extended back above his head, his body lifting into an almost painful arch. The couch smells of dust and skin and old sex. He hitches one foot onto the edge of the seat, slumps lower.

Dom loops his fingers loosely around his half-hard cock, not because he's particularly aroused, but because it's there, and it's something to do. He idles his fingertips over the crepe-soft skin of his foreskin, watching with interest how the little crinkles plump up and start to disappear almost at once. Dom thinks about Elijah, thinks about how you can bend and fold and staple that kid and he just squeals and squirms and shoots come. You can use him like a doll and those big blue eyes never lose their shine.

"No. Fuck."

Dom shifts, resettles with his fingers wrapped around the shaft of his cock, working skin over thickening flesh. He thinks about Orli, how Orli loves to be fucked, loves to feel a cock up his arse, how Orli doesn't need much of anything else from anyone.

Dank concrete and the sweat-smoke smell of the bystanders and Orli clutching a fistful of dirty banknotes and trying to staunch the blood from his nose with his fingers and just making the mess worse because his unprotected knuckles have been torn open too.

"You don't have to fight like this. I can make you somebody."

"Thanks mate, but I'm already somebody."

"Two of them against one of you – you like to fight those kind of odds?"

"Jus' tryin' to keep it interesting, yeah?"

"I can get you interesting. I can get you real fights. Who do you wanna fight? You wanna fight Karl fuckin' Urban? I can make that happen."

Orli giving up on his nose, just snuffling and letting the blood trickle down onto his top lip, staring at Dom.

"Keep talking."

Dom catches his lower lip between his teeth, his hips rolling luxuriously as he rides the low hum wave of pleasure. He tightens his grip on himself, enjoying the contrast of rigidity and soft skin. He thinks about Orli six months later, sleek and strong and so fucking hungry for a real fight. Orli's gonna pulp Urban and Dom's never actually seen a hundred grand all in one pile and Ian will have to back the fuck off.

"Shite."

Dom stops again, spits on his fingers, works the wetness over the stretched red skin at the head of his cock, shivering at the intensity of the sensation now. He lifts his other leg too, hooking his heel over the arm of the couch and leaning into the stretch until his tendons begin to complain. He closes his fingers snug around the tip of his cock, rubbing slowly and steadily and too gently. He pushes even further into the stretch of his groin, feeling the little stab of pain inside each thigh. His balls are tightening up, his blood's humming, he could come right now with the right touch, but he keeps himself to the same maddeningly inadequate rhythm.

"Open your legs for me," Ian mutters, and Dom squeezes his eyes closed and bites down hard on his lip and tries to just ride out the burning pain down the inside of each leg.

"I am."

"Wider, you little shit."

Dom moans, hitching his hips into his fist, trying to cheat the last shade of stimulation he needs out of the relentlessly even and indifferent slide of his hand on his cock.

"I'm … I'm going to come," Dom pants, as the heat gathers trembling in his balls.

"I should fucking care – why?"

Dom arches, cries out, the pain of his tendons momentarily overwhelmed in the red raw pleasure of his orgasm, his spunk coming out in thick gouts, splattering his stomach and hip. His hand keeps going at its own pace, driving shuddering spasms up his spine. He lets his legs fall together, the ache in his muscles a low background to the discomfort of his spunk-slick hand still moving on the hypersensitive skin of his cock. At last he stops, letting his feet drop back to the floor, waiting for his body to piece itself back together.

"Oh," Dom says, in a moment of uncharacteristic self-recognition.

To some, Dom might look like a fucked-up fuckup, lying naked and sweaty and spunk smeared on a smelly couch in a shitty flat in a city that's choking on its own post-imperial hangover, wanking to thoughts of a man old enough to be his grandfather. But to Dom …

… Dom's got everything a gambler needs. Dom's got a decent suit and a good pair of shoes and a stake down on a bet he can still win. He's a fucking prince. Who else should he want, if not the king?

Dom stands up a little unsteadily, the tendons of his legs still insulted. He goes through to the bathroom and consults the mirror again.

It doesn't matter, Dom realizes. It doesn't matter where he goes or who or what he does, because Ian's always there. Dom can feel him, tugging at an invisible tether embedded in Dom's brain. Dom wonders if Ian feels it too. But Ian doesn't have to feel or want or know. Dom feels and wants and knows enough for both of them.

Cut.

"If you're looking for Orlando you just missed him," Daisy says as Dom slouches onto the corner of the gym's front desk. Daisy doesn't mention that Elijah came through the gym too, and left with Orlando.

"Ah, doesn't matter anyway," Dom shrugs. "Everything okay with him?"

"Yeah, sure. JRD's getting a bit twitchy though. He's asking if there isn't some little thing about your fighter's background that you're willing to share with the sports papers. Just to get the punters interested, y'know?"

"No," Dom says at once. "Urban's handler finds out where Orli's being doing his fighting and he'll have every excuse to pull Urban out of this bout. After Orli wins, that'll be the time to let them write their 'street-fighter makes good' stories."

Cut.

The White Horse isn't on Dom's usual circuit of pubs, but Orli recently mentioned it, so when Dom finds himself passing by he decides on the spur of the moment to check it out. It's not much after five thirty, but there's already a respectable crush at the bar. Dom orders himself a short one and glances around for a seat, or an opportunity.

It's sitting on a barstool at the far end of the bar, with one empty seat right next door. Dom pays for his drink and works his way down the bar.

"You're not with anyone, are you?" Dom asks, putting his hand on the back of the empty seat.

Bean looks up from his glass, looks at Dom, looks at the seat next to his.

"No. Help yerself."

Dom flashes a grin of thanks and sits up at the bar, hitching the knees of his suit trousers a little and shooting his shirt cuffs before snagging out his cigarettes and lighter. All Dom could really see from the other end of the bar was a head of choppy strawberry blond hair and a hard profile and a pair of wide shoulders. Up close the view just gets better and better: swamp green eyes creased with laughter lines, and big broad hands with a mist of blond hair on the backs.

"Fag?" Dom asks Bean, his eyes wide with a world of innocence as he holds out his open cigarette pack.

Bean shakes his head, but watches as Dom lights up and takes a long savoring drag.

"That's a dirty habit," Bean observes.

Dom glances at him from the corners of his tip-tilted eyes and catches the answering spark of amusement in Bean's.

"An' that's the least of them mate," Dom smiles.

Bean ducks his head.

"Heh."

"I'm Dom," Dom says, flipping his cigarette around the rim of the ashtray and scattering little spots of ash onto the bar-top.

"Sean," Bean says without lifting his head.

"Heya Sean," Dom says, his voice turning silky.

Bean's contemplating the little stainless steel jug sitting next to his whiskey glass.

"So … it's something in the water I reckon, eh?" he says.

"What?" Dom frowns. It'd be a shame if Sean's senile, because he can't be more than two-thirds Ian's age.

Bean passes his hand dismissively in front of his face.

"Nothin', it's been an odd few days is all. How y'doing then, Dom?"

"I'm good," Dom smirks around his cigarette. "Got a nice evening planned, think I'm going to enjoy it quite a bit."

"Oh aye?"

"Yeah. I figure, you're a great lookin' bloke, you take me home with you, screw me through the fuckin' wall and it's all very pleasant."

"Really?" Bean deadpans. "That's a bit odd, because I figure y're an arrogant little shite hawk, an' I take y'out the back an' tan yer arse for ye'r."

"That'd be nice too," Dom says, keeping his voice remarkably even considering every drop of blood in his entire body is simultaneously relocating to his cock.

Cut.

"What are you waiting for? You gonna fuck me or what?" Dom demands, and now his voice is shaking as badly as the rest of him because the truth is he's kinda scared. Sure, he and Billy used to get pretty wild, but in the two years since they broke up, Dom's been almost exclusively a top. The few times he's let Elijah do him hardly count; Elijah can't hide that he's not really into it. Elijah, in Dom's experience, can't even get off with his cock up someone's arse.

Dom suspects that Bean is not necessarily going to be the easiest reintroduction Dom could have. But that's the point, isn't it?

"Bloody kids," Bean murmurs, backing Dom up then stopping him just short of the bed. "Always in a hurry. Well slow down or y'll get hurt."

While he's speaking, Bean's holding Dom in place with one big hand at the back of Dom's neck, and stripping Dom with the other.

"Maybe I want t'get hurt," Dom says, but he sounds uncertain.

Bean gets Dom's tie open and starts on his shirt collar.

"Jesus – I think y've had about all the hurt y'can handle, kid," Bean says, rubbing his thumb experimentally over the sickly plum-brown bruises on Dom's throat.

If it wasn't for Bean's hand on the nape of his neck, Dom would just fold onto the floor, because every bone and sinew and tendon in his body turns to a spill of warmth and liquid, and for a second Dom thinks he's come, right here, right now.

"Aw … y'sick fuckin' … little … " Bean breathes in mingled dismay and fascination.

Dom, panting for breath, lifts his head and nails Bean with a look straight from hell.

"Please … "

Bean licks his lips nervously, then reaches for Dom's throat again, slowly, setting his fingers precisely into the stripes left by Ian's grip. Dom shudders, bites his lower lip. Bean tightens his hold just enough to thicken the breath surging in and out of Dom's lungs. Dom whimpers, fingers clutching at Bean's sleeve.

Bean smiles, a very slow, slight smile, and Dom's convinced he sees something glinting and golden shift in the depths of Bean's green eyes, and Dom realizes he doesn't know the first thing about this guy.

Bean's mouth comes down hard on Dom's, his tongue pushing in hard and wet and messy, and Dom would struggle except for the warning pressure of Bean's hand on his throat. Bean's free hand is making short and sharp work of Dom's clothes, pinching and pressing each newly bared piece of skin as if testing its quality.

"Undress me," Bean says hoarsely, pushing a now naked Dom out of his kiss.

"I'm not gonna fuckin' - "

"Dom. Dominic, is it?" Bean says sharply.

Dom stops.

"This isn't a rape, Dominic," Bean says sternly. "Y're a very sexy young guy, an' I'm happy to do whatever it is that gets y'off, but y'have to convince me y'want it."

This is worse than Dom expected, but it makes sense. He nods and starts to undress Bean. Bean has Orli's height and just a little more width of frame, though his muscles have a finer-grained quality. There's an almost tissue softness to his skin that reminds Dom of Viggo, and is so very different from the taut smoothness of Elijah's flesh. There's a different smell too, something low and mossy and full, or maybe it's just the lack of the sharp-edged note that Dom and Elijah and Orli all share. Dom takes little cat licks at the skin of Bean's chest, turning blond fuzz into spit-darkened curls.

"Aye, that's better," Bean rumbles, smoothing Dom's hair back from his forehead. "Y'make me feel good, I'll make y'feel good. Tell me what y'want me to do to yeh, Dominic."

Dom squeezes his eyes closed in embarrassment, feeling his blood pounding in the tips of his ears.

"I don't know. I've never really … wanted to … feel … "

"Ah," Bean chuckles. "That's probably just as well, any road. I don't know much about it, never had more than a passing interest. But I know a bit more than nothing."

"Know … ?"

The smile passes from Bean's face like a light being quenched.

"If y'want to stop, y'say stop," Bean says flatly. "Otherwise, y'can screech yerself hoarse fer all I care."

Dom's pulse skitters messily around inside his veins.

"There's lube in the nightstand, get it," Bean says, undoing his belt buckle and fly.

Dom does as he's told. When he turns back, Bean's naked except for the leather belt wrapped around his left hand. Dom idiotically offers him the lube, then blushes when Bean jerks his chin to indicate Dom should drop it on the bed.

"Hands," Bean says.

Dom holds them out, and Bean loops his belt around Dom's wrist for three turns and then buckles it up snuggly. Dom's skin is breaking out in stinging spots of sweat and his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.

"Lie down."

Dom eases back onto the bed, awkward with his hands pinioned in front of him. He scoots back until he's stretched across the width of the bed. His tethered hands can't find a comfortable angle at which to rest on his stomach, and Dom finally lets them fall back above his head.

"Open yer legs."

Dom can feel a dark fever flush burning all over his skin. He bends his knees and draws his legs up.

"Open them wider," Bean amends.

Dom's heart slams in his chest. He plants his feet further apart and spreads his knees until he feels the stretch in his groin tendons. They begin to burn almost at once, still sulky after their morning's use.

Bean humphs, semi-satisfied. He moves to the bed, runs his big hands appraisingly up Dom's inner thighs. Dom's cock, lying aslant across his stomach, is so hard it hitches up and down in time to his heartbeat.

"Tell me, Dominic."

"But I don't know - "

"Y' want me to fuck you up the arse. Say it."

"I want you to fuck me up the arse," Dom says in a rush.

Bean takes hold of his cock in one hand and shifts onto his knees between Dom's legs. Dom gasps, panic-stricken, and tries to roll over. Bean catches him by the hips and pins him down.

"Not like this," Dom snaps.

"You want me to use the lube?" Bean says, and damn it, Dom can hear the laughter behind the words.

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I want you to use the lube."

"Say please."

Dom's afraid his heart is beating so hard he's gonna puke.

"Please. I want lube, please."

"Y' want me to finger you first, make it easier for yeh?"

"Yes … please."

"So I don't hurt yeh."

"So you don't hurt me."

"Please."

"So you don't hurt me … please. Please don't hurt me."

"See? Y'are a bloody natural at this," Bean says, and he leans in and Dom sobs out his breath into Bean's mouth.

Bean's hands are hard and cool, and Dom's burning skin tingles everywhere Bean touches: along Dom's sides, down his chest, under his arse, over his balls. One big hand surrounds Dom's cock and squeezes gently. Dom screams, but the sound is muffled between their mouths. Dom loops his bound wrists over Bean's head and winds his fingers in the short locks of Bean's hair.

Bean thumbs lube into the pucker of Dom's arse without bothering to warm the liquid first, and Dom jerks at the cold wet shock of the sensation. He writhes as Bean pushes until Dom's arsehole gives way and the blunt tip of Bean's thumb sinks into the tight ring of muscle. Bean breaks the kiss, and Dom pants brokenly and streams profanities and pleas.

"Oh fuckin' Jesus don't … yes … oh God … no don't not any more … shit … God … oh God yes … "

He twists and thrashes, but no matter which way he tries to turn he just succeeds in impaling himself even further on Bean's thumb.

"Y'are like a feckin' virgin Dominic, carryin' on about one thumb up yer arse," Bean says, illustrating with a particularly wicked swivel and shove that makes Dom kick and cringe and cry out in pleasure. "Tell me y'want more."

Dom makes a blurrily negative noise, even though his body curls and uncurls in complete abandonment.

" _Say it_."

"I want more – please. More," Dom gasps.

Bean pushes his other thumb in alongside the first. Dom whiplashes, yelling, then falls back on the bed gasping for air. Bean prizes his thumbs apart, stretching Dom's arse open. Dom starts making a broken little keening noise.

"Tell me you want my cock."

"No – please – it's – there's too much," Dom pleads.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"Christ _no_!"

"What do you want?"

"You – your cock. Fuck. I want your cock up my arse. I want – just – please, don't hurt me."

"Bloody brilliant," Bean marvels, nuzzling into the side of Dom's tear-streaked face.

Bean pulls out of Dom's hole and there's another swipe of cold lube that makes Dom sigh in relief and Bean's cock nudges blindly at Dom's hole and Dom has a moment of sick clarity when he realizes it is never. going. to fit. Then Bean's slick sticky cool hand wraps around the head of Dom's cock and slides and Dom doesn't fucking care what goes where anymore.

Bean pushes hard enough to get the head of his cock tucked just inside the rim of Dom's arse. Dom's hyperventilating so hard he's close to passing out. Bean makes slow circular passes of his palm around the top of Dom's cock, letting the waves of stimulation carry Dom past the discomfort as Bean inches further in. Dom nods frantically.

Bean closes his fingers around Dom's cock again, using a long smooth stroke, building speed and rhythm until Dom's arching off the bed, heeling the backs of Bean's thighs and opening sufficiently to let Bean pull and push and finally press all the way in.

"That's it that's fucking it don't move I'm gonna come," Dom snarls.

"What makes you think I care y'greedy little bugger?" Bean says, leaning in a little harder to give Dom the sense of greater penetration without actually abusing his inexperienced body any further.

Dom almost screams at the perfect pain of Bean dragging that line straight out of Dom's fantasy.

Bean pulls back fractionally, leans in again, faking the pump of fucking, and finds just the right slide and squeeze of his hand on Dom's cock and –

\- "No please please," Dom cries and he's coming, the sharp spurt of his come through the opening of his cock almost lost in the aching trembling pulse of his arse around the too tight stretch of Bean's cock. Bean pulls out smoothly but swiftly enough to make Dom thrash and sob. Bean takes hold of his own cock and pumps it quick and clean and his come pulses out in heavy splatters that land on Dom's thighs and trickle the crease of his arse.

"Ah fuck," Dom breathes, as he realizes he's not actually torn to pieces, though Christ he'll be sore when the buzz fades.

His eyes flicker closed and his breathing begins to even. For a minute he's replete with a sense of achievement, pride in overcoming his own uncertainties.

"Oh very well done," Ian drawls ironically. "I expect you think that was humiliating … degrading. That was nothing, Dominic. That was a peck on the cheek. You'll sink a good deal lower than that for me."

Bean's hands are spread wide over the two sides of Dom's ribcage, and he feels the hectic shudder that wracks Dom's compact frame, though he's sure he's done nothing to prompt it.

 _  
**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 25 (this part DM(IM), DM/SB NC-17).**   
_


	26. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 26

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 26** _

  


Brad Dourif is not bad guy, for Christ's sake. It's not like he ever killed anyone or anything; he was just trying to run a business. Jesus.

Okay, so maybe if he hadn't been offloading genuine leather Gucci knock-off attaché cases for forty-five quid a pop on the street, things wouldn't have gotten as complicated as they did, but – Jesus wept – it's easy to see that with stinking _hindsight_. At the time, those attaché cases were a no-brainer. Brad picked up four boxes of them in exchange for six cases of pink tequila and two hundred and fifty calendars from a Japanese plumbing firm. He figured he could stick the boxes in the back of the van, haul them round the East End, and flog them off for forty-five quid each or two for the unrepeatable bargain price of seventy quid the pair with a Rolex gold highlighter pen thrown in for free.

Brad's a respectable stinking businessman, for Christ's sake. He has roots in the community; he pays his taxes. Okay, he doesn't pay his stinking taxes, but only because the money goes to fatten the leech like slugs of the English aristocracy, and Brad's not English, so why should he support the stinkers? _Jesus_.

Anyway. The point - for _Christ's_ sake - is that Brad did nothing wrong. At least, not until he smashed in the rear window of Viggo's car but that, as they say, is a tale for another day. As far as this part of the story is concerned, Brad was just offering a quality product to an eagerly buying public. Not his fault the stinking things were so popular, is it? Jesus Mary an' George Bush. It wasn't even like he made that much on them, after he'd paid off his alimony to his _bitch_ ex-wife may she die from _collagen_ poisoning and bought his girlfriend a new pair of tits. Jesus.


	27. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 27 (this part BB/MO NC-17).

  
  
  
  
  


**Current mood:**

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exhausted  
  
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It's a little after six in the evening when Billy comes out of Jackson's Turf Accountants, tucking a manila envelope containing fifteen hundred quid inside his overcoat. He glances left and right before crossing the street to his parked car. As he does so, he notices the hawker on the corner displaying a modestly sized attaché case to half a dozen onlookers.

"Look at that workmanship, for Christ's sake," Brad rasps, holding open the two sides of the case to display the interior. "That's Italian leather, all hand-sewn in an atelier in Paree France. Forty-five pounds, or two for the unrepeatable bargain price of seventy, and you get this Rolex gold pen at no extra cost."

"Here," Billy says, easing his way to the front of the group.

"What can I do you for, friend? One or two?"

"Jus' the one, thanks."

Billy hands over the cash and Brad hands over the attaché case. Billy tucks it under his arm without giving it a second glance and walks quickly back to his car.

Once he's in the driver's seat, Billy rips out the protective plastic layer over the attaché case's interior and takes the envelope from inside his coat. He extracts the cash and lays it into the case. He cracks the glove compartment and starts removing the various bank bags, envelopes, paper bags, and deli flimsies containing the various sums of money totaling twenty thousand pounds. Methodically Billy transfers the money to the attaché case. When he's done, the case is less than a fifth full. He zips it up and slides it under the passenger seat, then scrunches up the empty wrappers and puts them in the unused soda cup that serves as a trash container in his car.

Cut.

Billy parks across the street from The Black Jack. He waits, rubbing his fingertips together and pursing his lips, missing the cigarettes he hasn't touched for five years. It's after seven and fully dark when Billy finally pulls the attaché case from under the passenger seat and gets out of the car. He crosses the street and presses the club's door bell.

"Evening Sir. Not a member, are you?"

"No," Billy says. The doorman's a stranger; after Billy's time, he guesses.

"If you'll just sign the guestbook then."

"I will. Thanks."

Billy hurries up the stairs. He scrawls an illegible something that might be his name on the lined guestbook page, then pushes through the brass and glass doors into the lounge. He hesitates, glancing around him in search of inspiration, then heads towards the back of the bar.

"William," Cate says sharply, intercepting him before he can reach the 'employees only' door.

Billy halts.

"Cate. Yeh look well."

She looks like an ice carving, draped in white fabric with gray pearls gleaming at her ears and throat.

"Go away, William. Whatever you're here for, the answer is no."

"I have tah see him."

Cate blinks, and for a second the angles and glints of her face blur, then refocus.

"Don't do this," she says. "You of all people know how much he resents being in anyone's debt. It's been five years. Just … go away."

"I cannah. I wish wi' all mah heart I could, Cate, but … I have tah see him."

Cut.

"William Boyd," Ian says, as if turning the sound over his mouth and finding it not quite to his liking.

Billy focuses on just standing at ease in the middle of Ian's study, refusing to fidget or grimace or fuckin' piss himself, all of which are fairly compelling urges just now.

"You look like crap," Ian says. "Honest living doesn't suit you, William. But Cate's looking beautiful, isn't she?"

Cate, standing with Ian in front of the fireplace, is a model of frozen serenity.

"Cate's always looked beautiful," Billy says gently, the ghost of smile curling his mouth.

Ian smiles too, without any softening of his expression.

"That's sweet of you to say, considering she took your job. She's every bit as efficient as you were, William. And a good deal more loyal."

"I never betrayed yeh, Ian," Billy says, his voice rough with too much swallowed emotion. "I spent three years in prison fer somethin' you did. How was that a betrayal?"

"Because you never came home," Ian says, and the smooth surface of his demeanor is cracking a little, something red and raw showing underneath. "You never gave me a chance to make things right between us. Because if you'd really trusted in me you wouldn't have done it in the first place, William."

 _Cate crying messily, trying to drag on Billy's sleeve to stop him reaching across to pluck the gun out of the shambles of blood and brain._

 _"What are you doing?"_

 _"I'm goin' tah say it was me. A'right Cate? We're goin' tah tell them I killed him. It wasn'ah Ian's fault, it was an accident, an' we're goin' tah keep Ian outta trouble."_

 _"No!"_

 _Grabbing her by the arms, trying to shake some sense into her, realizing that he's crying too._

 _"Isn't that what yeh want? Aren't you the one that lives and breathes and bloody believes in him? Don't yeh want to protect him?"_

 _"We don't have to! Just – we just have to be quiet – Ian will make it alright. We just have to trust him._

Billy's eyes close, and Billy can only be grateful for their good judgment.

"But you've never understood that, have you William?" Ian says, and he's firmly in control again. "You've never really believed in something completely. You're always holding back. Love doesn't work like that, William. Love's all or nothing."

Billy's eyes open, and for a long moment he just listens to the silence inside himself, and the far distant howl of rage. What Billy's done to himself for love can be written in razor blades.

Billy swings the attaché case up onto a side table and unzips it.

"Twenty grand," he snaps. "I'm here tah clear Dom Mongahan's debt wi'yeh."

Ian stares as if Billy's just opened up a bag of horse turds.

"Go on, take it," Billy says, shoving the bag away from himself.

"What the fuck is – Dominic's been done with you for years," Ian challenges.

"Och y'know how it is, Ian," Billy says, his eyes glittering with reckless anger. "Love's all or nothin'."

For a second the air turns white and Cate inhales sharply and Billy thinks Jesus Jesus this is it I'm goin' tah die now an' I never – I never had my life between this bastard and that bastard and the bastard I am, I never – and it would have been nice jus' once to have a minute wi' Elijah that wasn't –

And then Ian stills, and the ice forms again, and Billy knows he's still dead, but for now he's going to be allowed to go on breathing, so that's all good.

"I'm sorry," Ian says blandly. "I can't accept this money, not from you. My agreement is with Dominic. I'll tell you what I'll do, though, as a favor, to an old friend. I'll see that this money gets to Dominic, and if he's so inclined he can use it to pay me off."

Billy blinks, trying to come to terms with the sensation of having had his skin snatched off unexpectedly. The question of what will happen if Billy says 'thanks but no thanks' and tries to walk back out of here with the twenty grand is intriguing, but not encouraging. The worst part is that Billy knows he can trust Ian to give the money to Dom; he just can't trust Dom to give the money back to Ian.

Cut.

"Aye. Well. I think tha' went about as well as could be expected," Billy tells his refection in the rear-view mirror.

Ian's going to kill him, because Ian thinks Billy's still in love with Dom, because Billy's a suicidal idiot. _Love's all or nothin' yer arse_. On the off-chance Billy survives, he'll get to see Ian suck Dom dry and drop the brittle bones into the trash. Dom's got the whole wrong idea if he thinks he can whore Ian out of a debt of tuppence, let alone twenty grand. Ian McKellen doesn't pay for sex, in cash or kind. Of course, before that happens, Ian will give Dom Billy's twenty thousand pounds, and Dom's a deranged fuck-artist, so he'll probably spend the money on dog racing and a cherry velvet suit. Of course, the money isn't really Billy's anyway, he borrowed it, and where that's gonna come from he has no clue. Doesn't really matter though, at no point in this plan did he know how he'd pay it back. Best of all, Elijah will notice that Dom's been wrung out, wrapped up and whacked to pieces. Elijah will know that Billy didn't save Dom, even though he promised Elijah he would. Elijah won't be looking at Billy like Billy's the rock of refuge anymore. Elijah probably won't be looking in Billy's direction at all.

Something sharp and hard and jittery forces its way up out of Billy's ribcage, up his throat, out his mouth. Billy realizes he's laughing, more than a little hysterically. He manages to stifle it a little.

"D'yeh ken what I need?" he asks the world at large. "A big fuckin' drink."

He's laughing again, the spasms wracking his whip-lean frame. He drops his forehead on the steering wheel, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to stem the hot salt tears running down his face. He chokes, gulping air down, determined to stop before his fucking heart breaks.

Cut.

"Yeah yeah, I'm there," Miranda says, raising her voice over the determined trill of the doorbell as she comes down the hallway, the backs of her brown velvet mules slapping on the tiled floor. She shifts the silky cascade of her copper hair to one shoulder and straightens the hem of her sweater over her hip. "It's midnight, you better have a warrant - "

"Hi yah, Mir," Billy says sheepishly, as she opens the door wide enough for him to feel the sudden loss of support and he sort of sways round the doorframe.

"Billy? Bernard doesn't live here anymore," Miranda says gently, glancing past Billy to see the departing taillights of a taxi. "We got divorced, remember?"

"Ah know," Billy says sadly.

"You're drunk," Miranda says, just the faintest trace of puzzled exasperation edging her voice. "You're never drunk, Billy."

"Ah know."

"Well … come in. You can't stay out there."

"Ah know."

Miranda slops one hand through her hair as she stands back, allowing Billy to stumble on the step and cross the threshold. Miranda guides him through to the kitchen.

"Sit down, I'll make you some tea," she says, parking him at the breakfast bar and clattering around with a cup and a spoon and a bright red kettle.

"Have yeh anythin' stronger?" Billy asks slyly.

"Strong tea. God Billy, you're a mess," Miranda complains, seeing him properly in the clear light of the kitchen.

"Ah know."

She takes the sharp tip of his chin between her almond pink fingertips and turns his face this way and that. There's a rim of rusty blood around each nostril, and a few spots spattered on his white shirt collar.

"Have you been _fighting_?"

"Ah may have gotten intah a bit of a frack'arse, aye. Some bastard accused me of bein' Scottish, so I showed him wha' was wha'."

Miranda snicks out a short laugh and pushes him off in mock-disgust as the kettle begins to whistle. She moves around, gathering up a tea bag and milk and sugar and a saucer. Her slender body is cleanly outlined by her thin green-gold sweater and her clingy black pants. Billy's eyes follow her, relishing the way she turns in quick rhythmic circles, leading with her hips. Billy remembers faintly that she was a dancer before she took up with Bernard. As well as being … y'know … the other.

"Here, drink this. I'll fold out the couch for you," Miranda says, pushing a cup of mahogany brown tea in front of him.

"Thanks, Mir," Billy sighs, lifting the cup to his lips.

"Bernard told me he thought you were getting mixed up with Dom again," Miranda says sympathetically.

She leans in, her right hip fitting against the left side of the seat he's sitting on, and her hand comes down lightly on Billy's right shoulder.

"It's … it's sort'ah complicated," Billy says, but his voice is all gummed up and he's not sure if it comes out very intelligibly.

"Poor Billy," Miranda says, leaning down to rest her cheek against the top of his head, and the banner of her hair slips and slides down the side of Billy's face and he turns his head a little bit, and the way the overhead light's slanting through the open knit of her sweater he can see where the edge of her red bra cup meets her pale skin. There's a funny sort of shimmer in Billy's veins, made of equal parts booze and tea tannin and loneliness.

Billy swivels his seat, turning around inside her embrace until he's facing her, and there's a moment when she allows it, when his arms going around her hips and his mouth pressing into the hollow between the two wings of her ribs are no more than the blind urge towards human warmth. She palms the baby soft strands of his hair back.

Then Billy mouths softly at her sweater and his teeth carve out the precise curve under her ribcage and his hands drop down around the swell of her behind and his fingers flex on the dense round flesh. Miranda inhales sharply and twists her hips out of Billy's embrace.

"Billy - "

"Christ, Mir, please, it doesn' hafta be anythin'," Billy pleads, catching her again and digging his thumbs into the hollows in front of her hip bones.

"I don't work anymore!" Miranda snaps, jerking herself free. She swipes her hair back, trying to level her breathing. "I'm my own boss now Billy, I've got my own girls. If you want, I'll call someone for you."

Billy blinks, staring at her as if he can't recall how he got here.

"Mir? Oh fuck. Mir, I'm sorry. I'll go," he says, standing up unsteadily.

"No," Miranda cuts in, rubbing at the creases between her eyebrows. "It's alright."

"I didn't mean - "

"Neither did I," Miranda frowns. She bites into the side of her lip, trying to stifle the urge to cry. "It's … it's okay."

Billy's still making broken noises of contrition when she moves back into his embrace. She loops her arms around his shoulders, lets her hands trail weightlessly down his spine to the curve at the small of his back.

"Mir - "

She shushes him, and covers the baby pout rosebud of his lips with her own curling mouth. She has to coax his lips apart with the tip of her tongue, and there's a hesitation when she does, but then he begins to respond. She slides his jacket back off his shoulders, and he shrugs it down his arms and tosses it behind him in the general direction of his seat. Miranda runs her fingers down his tie, and lifts her lips from his.

"Come upstairs."

They move slowly, tentatively, stopping often to kiss or touch or just hold each other for a moment along the way. Billy's hands make gentle forays between the edge of her sweater and the waist of her pants, exploring the warmth of her skin.

The bedroom's in darkness, and she leaves it like that, with just the light spill from the landing through the half open door to guide them in undressing. She leads, stripping Billy carefully and running her hands over him, gentling the little tremors passing through him. She removes her own clothes slowly, and as each article is discarded, Billy touches her reverently, gratefully. When she takes down his shorts, he's half hard, his cock pulsing softly under her fingertips. He wraps his own hand around it, squeezing and rubbing slowly, and the head grows smooth and shiny and firm.

She folds back the corner of the blankets and climbs into the bed, twisting the hank of her hair into a thick rope and putting it behind her head when she sets it on the pillow. He climbs in on the other side, and she pulls the covers up over them both. They lie face to face, watching the golden glance of light off each other's faces, the shine of each other's eyes.

"What would you like?" Miranda whispers. "Do you want me to fuck you? Or would you like to do it to me?"

Billy blinks and presses his lips together, and Miranda understands that what he wants most is to not have to make any decisions.

"It's okay," she says, grazing her touch past the curve of his chest. "It's okay."

Miranda's got three inches on Billy in height but with a woman's longer legs and shorter torso, so that they've always fit together well. Their faces are so close together that kissing is a mere matter of lifting their chins. They lie lightly against each other, touching from shoulders to toes, but with a thin skim of air whispering between them.

They stroke each other, safe little touches at first, on the curl of an ear or the crest of a cheekbone, along the side of a throat, over the rise of a collarbone. They have all the time in the world; neither of them have anywhere else to be, or anyone else to be there with.

 _Billy, an hour out of prison and on fire to scratch the two itches that had been tormenting him for three years straight – a glass of water with ice in it, and sex with a woman. And Bernard had sent Billy along to Miranda, whom he'd met the week before when she'd had trouble with a customer who'd gotten too rough._

Their hands flutter lower. Billy caresses the curve at the side of Miranda's breast, and thumbs across her nipples, feeling them roughen under his touch. Billy hasn't been with more than a half-dozen women in his life, yet this always seems familiar and unsurprising in a way that the flat muscular plains of a man's chest never do. He palms his hand down the center of her body, lingering over the soft little pooch of her belly.

Miranda takes Billy's cock in the length of her hand. He's half-flaccid again, but she feels the flesh firming in her fingers. There's an awkward criss-cross of wrists and hands as Billy touches her, his index and middle fingers parting her and she makes a little noise in the base of her throat and her pulse pounds once in her clit and he's disordered things enough that her juice is on his fingers and his wrist and her hip.

She shifts, hitching her thigh over his, using her fingers to tuck the still not quite hard head of his cock inside her. His eyelids flicker and his fingers tighten on her hips. They make careful little adjustments of angle and distance, and she can feel him swelling inside her, and she rocks against him, a tiny, secret motion.

 _The funny little three room flat Miranda had lived in, and God how they fucked and fingered and sucked their way over every piece of furniture she'd owned. Billy laughing because he was alive, Miranda laughing because in those moments she was his goddess. Bernard had come by in the evening to drop off a take-away curry, and he'd blushed beet red when Miranda answered the door wearing nothing but Billy's open shirt, and Billy naked as the day he was born standing in the bedroom doorway smoking a cigarette._

Billy's breathing develops a deliberate edge and his body begins to pull into focus. Their evenly balanced side-by-side position is hard to maintain; they roll slightly, Billy ending up half on top of Miranda. She moves her pelvis, enjoying his weight on her. The motion is still small and slow, but it's going on so steadily and for so long that it's building a core of pure fire inside her. Billy gets harder, bigger, until she has to move with him, breathing in time to his strokes, feeling herself stretch and ache around him.

Billy lifts onto his elbows, pushes his knees beneath hers, making the angle between them sharper and cleaner. He moves from his hips, his spine flexing under her hands, the long hard muscles of his back rippling. He's working hard enough to drive little gasps and moans out of her open mouth. She clutches at him, lifts her head from the pillow and tries to capture his mouth with hers.

"Mir – I'm goin' tah come," he says breathlessly.

And it's his _accent_ God help her that flickers flame soft over her and everything shimmers and shivers and her toes curl tight and she's breathing in frantic little pants and then her spine turns to schmoop.

"Mm, yes, do, come," she pants and he's looking at her like he's just done something terrible and she's about to find out and then he goes rigid and she feels the little beat beat beat inside her and he's struggling for air and

"Mir"

and he collapses beside her and she cries out when his cock slithers free in a wet scorching rush.

 _He stayed all that night, though they didn't sleep until dawn. She woke at lunchtime to find him under the kitchen sink, fixing the drip from the drain. She sent him away that evening. She was a thirty-two year old prostitute, and he was a twenty-six year old felon just off a three year stretch for manslaughter. Some mistakes are so obvious you forget to make them._

They go on touching each other, lightly, regretfully, until they both drift into sleep.

Cut.

The last thing Cate does before she leaves the club every night is check Ian's sitting room to make sure nothing's lying around that shouldn't be seen by the daytime cleaning staff. So it's after two in the morning when she goes in to find Ian still sitting in the dark.

"Ian? It's time to go home," she says, approaching the couch.

"You're very patient with me," he says, apropos nothing. "I'm an old fool."

Cate sits next to him, and rests her fair head on his angular shoulder.

"You're not old," she sighs.

"Touché," Ian smirks.

"Dominic's a - "

"I know," Ian cuts in. "Believe me, there isn't one particle of that young man's nature I don't already know. It's like looking in a mirror … a mirror forty years ago, at any rate."

Cate won't answer. She refuses to believe this line of argument, yet she also can't believe that Ian is lying or mistaken, which leaves her rather at a loss.

"I keep thinking – day dreaming, rather – about what would have happened to me, if there had been a man … an older man, distinguished, accomplished, not unattractive," Ian half teases. "Someone who understood me. Accepted me for what I was. Fell in love with me."

Cate makes a noise like a stifled snort. Ian laughs.

"Oh it's all mockery to you Miss, my Snow Queen. Just because you're immune. But you might spare a bit of sympathy for the rest of us."

Cate lifts her head, looks searchingly into Ian's eyes.

"But you like me this way, don't you? You like that nothing's ever touched me? This is what you wanted, isn't it? You said I never to had to do that."

"Cate," Ian says in surprise. "I said you never had to fuck someone if you didn't want to. But there is a difference between sex and love. Alright, that sounded ludicrous."

Cate laughs, but there's a glittery edge to it that she knows Ian won't miss.

She gets up and walks over to the table where Billy's attaché case is still lying open. She zips it up.

"Do you want me to deliver this to Mister Monaghan?" she asks, knowing that Ian will appreciate her offering rather than waiting to be asked.

"No," Ian says, shamefaced. "Not yet. Not just yet Cate, thank you."

Cut.

 _  
**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 27 (this part BB/MO NC-17).**   
_


	28. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 28 (this part OB/KU)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 28 (this part OB/KU)** _

  


Karl and Orli haven't discussed it, but there's a kind of assumed understanding that they'll wait. They won't get into a ring together until the official fight day. It seems the right thing to do. Everyone thinks that they'll be facing one another for the first time at the welterweight title fight; as it is, they know way more about each other than they should.

Orli knows, for example, that Karl is unbelievably strong. If the fight turns into a close-quarters grappling match, then Orli won't have a chance. Orli's best hope is to keep things fast and furious, lots of rapid attacks and sudden breakaways.

Karl knows that Orli is incredibly fast. If the fight turns into a high-speed attack and counterattack match, then Karl won't have a chance. Karl's best hope is to keep things close, lots of holds and tackles.

The first time, it's an accident.

Orli's trying to make tea for them both, and Karl's managing to be in the way no matter where Orli turns in the small kitchen.

"Move, I can't get the tea leaf tin," Orli laughs, shoving playfully against Karl's shoulder. Karl thinks himself heavy and holds onto the edge of the countertop.

"Shit head," Orli grins, reaching past Karl for the tin.

"Neh eh," Karl says, pushing the tin further out of reach.

"Oh. A wise guy," Orli says. He reaches again, more speedily, but still relaxed.

Karl knocks Orli's hand aside, then holds his own fingers splayed wide as a barrier to further attempts. The smile slides off Orli's face. He darts his hand out. Karl blocks with his wrist, twisting to deflect Orli's hand downwards but Orli lets the block roll over the back of his hand and then slaps Karl's hand sideways. Orli hooks the tea tin with the backs of his fingers and knocks it towards himself. Karl swings at Orli's hand again but Orli blocks, the backs of their hands slapping together. They break, each trying again, and this time the block comes palm to palm in a loud crack of flesh on flesh. Break. Karl makes a grab for Orli's wrist but Orli's hand flashes down and under and over and he slams Karl's wrist face down on the edge of the counter, Orli's fingers white-knuckled around the pulsing tendons of Karl's forearm.

"Jesus," Karl murmurs.

"Yeah. That was pretty … "

" … intense," Karl finishes.

They stare at the junction between Karl's wrist and Orli's fingers and the countertop for several seconds.

"Where could we even go?" Karl asks, his breath suddenly ragged.

"I don't know, man. Astin's gym is out – he an' Daisy would recognize you in a heartbeat."

"I could bring you to Bean's gym - _Jacob_."

"Ah shit no, man. It's one thing to lie to a guy in bed, but lying to him in his gym? No way. He'd fuckin' kill us both when he found out."

Karl shrugs regretfully, then frowns intently.

"Wait a second. We don't even need a ring, we just need some space, and a decent surface. We can go somewhere else, some other gym. A non MMA gym, maybe not a fight gym at all."

"Ah Christ. We could go somewhere out of the city, get into the suburbs. One of those candy-ass mall gyms."

"Get the phone book."

Cut.


	29. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 29 (this part EW/BB)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 29 (this part EW/BB)** _

Dedicated to [](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=sumbitch)[**sumbitch**](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=sumbitch), because she just is.

Elijah spends that night and the following one sharing Liv's enormous bed. They watch dog pageants and eat uncooked cake batter and wait to see if Elijah's really going to leave Dom. During the day, while Liv's out promoting up-and-over garage doors at a home improvement convention, Elijah spends an hour on the phone to the university convincing them that he's not dead and he'd like to move the stuff he has in storage back to his dorm room thanks.

In the evening, he and Orli stop by the flat and box up the things Elijah has there. There are signs of Dom's continuing occupancy: two freshly pressed suits in cleaner's plastic hanging on the inside of the bedroom door, and a flock of empty beer bottles around the couch. No Dom and no attempts at contact. Elijah and Orli load up as much of Elijah's stuff as will fit in the back seat and trunk of Orli's tiny car. The rest – two cardboard boxes, and a black rip-stop duffle bag containing Elijah's rarely used sports gear – they shove in the back of the closet in the bedroom.

The next day, Elijah and Orli and Orli's mate Karl move Elijah's stuff back to campus. Elijah's room is a single at the top of three flights of narrow stairs and some of the boxes won't fit up the stairwell, so there's laborious unpacking and repacking on the sidewalk outside the dorm building. The whole thing should take hours, but Elijah loads the guys up like pack horses and they pound up the stairs laughing and calling each other 'weakling' and 'slow poke'. When the car's empty and Elijah follows them up, he catches them in his room. Karl's got Orli cornered between the desk and the tower of cardboard boxes and the stack of plastic flip-top crates Elijah's storage stuff is in. Orli's head is tipped to one side and his eyes are closed; Karl is slowly thumbing the skin at the corner of Orli's mouth, and breathing against Orli's parted lips.

"Ah heh _hem_ ," Elijah announces from the doorway.

The guys move apart, Orli grinning at Elijah while Karl is suddenly fascinated by the cover of Elijah's _Political and Economic History of Great Britain from Eighteen Seventy-Five to Nineteen Sixty_ textbook.

On the way back, Elijah stops at the flat again. No Dom, but the silence in the air feels fresh, and there's still a little damp warmth in the air of the bathroom. Dom's suits are still hanging on the back of the bedroom door. Elijah opens the closet, setting the empty hangers on his side of the rail jingling. Dom's black leather bike jacket is gone. Out on pleasure, not business, then.

"You wanna take that stuff with us?" Orli asks, coming up behind Elijah and gesturing to the two boxes and the duffle bag left behind the previous evening.

"No. I can get it another time," Elijah says.

He finds a piece of paper and a pen and writes out the phone number for his dorm room, then fixes it to the handle of the refrigerator door with a piece of tape. Sooner or later, he knows, he and Dom are going to have to say something to each other, even if it's only 'so long and thanks for all the sex.'

Cut.

"He's not here, alright?" Sala scowls over the cliff of his folded arms and hunched shoulders.

"You said that part already," Elijah says. "Come on, where is he? At home? Where's that?"

"Nah … you're the fella's shacked up with Dom Monaghan, aren't yeh?"

Elijah opens his mouth to answer but nothing comes out and his brows furrow anxiously.

"It's … sort of complicated," he manages at last.

"Yeah well Mister Boyd doesn't want anymore to do with your boyfriend, so hop it."

Elijah emits a little squashed noise of frustration. His eyes are prickling and he's afraid he's going to cry from sheer anger at himself. Sometimes, when everyone you know thinks your boyfriend's a dipshit, it's because he _is_.

"Just – please - _please_ ," he says, flushing red with shame but incapable of turning around and leaving with nothing except his stupid dignity.

Sala's eyebrows waffle up on his forehead and his mouth wobbles in unconscious imitation of Elijah's.

"Look," Elijah says in sudden inspiration, pulling Billy's business cards out of his jacket pocket and showing the hand-written number on the reverse to Sala. "He gave me his home number. It's not like he doesn't want to talk to me."

"So call him."

"I – I just really need to _see_ him, y'know? I can't say this on the phone. _Please_."

"Gimme that then," Sala says, taking the card from Elijah and extracting his good pen from inside his jacket. "You can't miss it, there's a mailbox right across the street."

He hands the card back to Elijah with Billy's home address written in small even print across the top.

"Thanks. _Thanks_ ," Elijah snaps, shoving the card into his pocket and yanking Sala's suit lapel so hard that Sala leans and Elijah wraps one arm around the trunk of Sala's neck and plants a loud dry kiss on Sala's cheek.

Cut.

Billy's house is in the middle of a quaint Victorian terrace, with a black wrought iron railing around a scrap of front lawn the size of a tablecloth. The grass is lush and neatly trimmed, the paintwork and brick façade of the house crisp and irreproachably clean.

Elijah takes his hand out of his jacket pocket long enough to rap the brass lion's head on the door. After a moment, he can hear feet pounding on wooden stairs and the rattle of the latch.

" – yeh're selling I'm no' interested," Billy announces grimly as he opens the door. "Oh. Elijah."

"Hi," Elijah says.

"Hello."

Billy's wearing neatly fitting gray sweat pants, a blue tee shirt, and a pair of trainers that might have come out of the box this morning. Billy's hair is corn-silk fluff, and he's so closely shaven that his pink cheeks look like they've never grown stubble at all. Elijah remembers that he himself is wearing Liv's Hello Kitty Taj Mahal tee shirt under his jacket, and wonders where the fuck his head was when he got dressed this morning. He also hasn't had a chance to shower or change since moving his stuff back to the dorm, and his jeans are variously dusty and grimy and frayed.

"Oh. Come in, come in," Billy says hastily, stepping back and opening the door wider. Elijah smiles and steps in. "I was jus' goin' tah make tea – or coffee. Would yeh like coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks," Elijah answers at random, wandering through to the sitting room.

Billy's house has small rooms, furnished sparsely enough to retain an air of space and ease.

"Can I take yer jacket?" Billy asks.

"No, no thanks," Elijah says, thinking of Hello Kitty in her pink sari.

"Oh, right so. But enough time for coffee, right?"

"Right."

Elijah follows Billy into the kitchen. Billy worries at the coffee.

"I went by the betting shop, but you weren't there," Elijah says, then resists the urge to face-slap himself because, duh, Billy already knows he's not there.

"Aye, I thought I'd take a bit of a break for a couple ah days. Are yeh a'right then? Is there somethin' yeh needed to see me about?"

"No, no, I – yeah."

"Oh?"

"The thing is, I wanted to let you know, I've moved out of the flat. I'm back in the dorm at school."

Billy nods gravely.

"That's a wise decision; it's probably safer. An' it's not fer long. Once things get sorted, yeh can move back to Dom's."

Elijah looks at him sharply.

"It's not – I'm not going back," he says firmly. "I've broken up with Dom. Sort of."

"What sort of?"

"Well, I've left him and I've moved my stuff out but I haven't seen Dom or talked to him since, so I'm not sure if he noticed."

"Oh."

They look at each other in silence. Billy's barely breathing, holding so still he's sure he can feel each individual molecule of air brushing and blundering against his cheeks and eyes and lips. Even his heartbeat is hushed to a distant rhythmic whisper.

"So I wanted to tell you," Elijah says, laying the fragile words out with tender care. "So you wouldn't come looking for me at the flat, because I won't be there. I'll be back at school, so I won't be … around. Because I'll be gone … back to school."

Billy's thoughts are already leaping ahead by weeks or – months, yeh insensitive bastard, show some bloody respect an' give him a few months – to when it won't be so wrong if Billy maybe asks Elijah out for a pint, or maybe even to a picture because one of the two or three precious fragments of general information that Billy has about Elijah is that he likes to go to the pictures. And they'll be able to jus' talk and maybe have a bit of a laugh, because Billy's never seen Elijah laugh but he knows it's going to be beautiful.

Of course, the trouble with that plan is that while Billy's showing a respectful degree of decorum and waiting for Elijah to get over Dom a bit, Elijah's going to be at college, surrounded young people, all of them bright and young and with nothin' but opportunity ahead of them. Billy knows how reckless guys of Elijah's age are; their hearts can break and mend in the space of week, and they can fall in love between one breath and the next.

"So I won't really see you, at all," Elijah's saying, and God Billy's never seen his eyes so big and blue and shining, as if he could blink and blink sapphires.

Billy's heart closes up tight, and he won't let himself think about what Elijah's saying, about Elijah not being at the flat or the betting shop anymore. Billy swiftly bargains himself down to six weeks, he'll wait six weeks, and if there's one thing Billy knows how to do it's to wait. Six weeks without seeing Elijah won't kill him, even if it feels like it will.

Elijah's run out of words, and they're facing each other in silence again, a music box that's finally wound down, the last note hanging unsounded in the air.

Cut.


	30. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 30 (EW/BB NC-17)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 30 (EW/BB NC-17)** _

  


"Screw this," Elijah says, and he pushes forward into Billy's space.

Billy, startled and confused, steps back, so there's a messy non-contact between Elijah's open mouth and Billy's up-tilted chin. Billy's so shocked that he freezes.

"Billy," Elijah says, his breath on Billy's lips hot enough to make Billy gasp.

Billy's heart is hammering so hard that he can feel it in every part of his body. Elijah moves in again and this time his mouth splits open against Billy's lips, sweet as a ripe peach, warm with the humming life of the sun, and wet right through. Billy moans deep down in his chest, his hands twitching at his sides with the urgent desire to touch, just touch. Elijah's tongue snake-slides into Billy's mouth, and Billy moans again.

Billy's conscience is screaming at him to stop this, to pull back. Elijah doesn't mean it, or doesn't mean anything by it. Elijah's young and he's adrift and scared. Billy's old and weighed down by too many mistakes and, yes, he's scared too. He knows his heart doesn't have another break left in it.

Elijah's kiss turns to mewling desperation, biting and licking at Billy's lips. Elijah twists both fists into the front of Billy's tee shirt, dragging them even closer together. They're crushed against each other so hard that Billy can feel Elijah's bones even through his jacket, can feel the hard ridge of Elijah's erection and the tense curve of Elijah's thighs and the nudge of Elijah's kneecaps.

"Billy, Billy," Elijah pleads against Billy's half-parted lips.

Billy's hands fall open and fall upwards and fall into the dark baby feathers of Elijah's hair and along Elijah's velvet jaw and Billy pushes into Elijah's kiss and Elijah's cry of grateful triumph gets swallowed up between them.

Billy's tongue stabs into Elijah's mouth and Billy's fingers are pressing white circles in the flushed skin of Elijah's jaw, and Billy's telling himself frantically to ease off, that he'll hurt Elijah or scare him. Sure enough, Elijah lets go of Billy's tee shirt and prizes his arms out from between their chests and – ooh, alright – he takes hold of Billy by the hips and pushes him off and then jerks him back in to bring their cocks together and a fucking firework display takes place from the root of Billy's spine to the empty space in his skull. Billy breaks the kiss, desperate for a taste of the skin at the corner of Elijah's jaw, under his ear, along his throat …

"Billy … can we?" Elijah gasps, his fingers biting hard into Billy's hips.

Billy pulls back, frowning.

"What, love? What do yeh want?"

Elijah's not reticent about asking for sex, but he's pretty sure he's already conveying his wishes as clearly as possible. Yet Billy's looking at him in genuine bewilderment and Elijah's fucking aching for it but he doesn't know what to say because it's so important that he say the right thing.

Elijah buries his face against Billy's shoulder and writhes deliberately, rubbing himself against the solid bulge of Billy's erection. Billy's stance softens a little, melting against Elijah.

"Are you – are you asking me teh go teh bed wi'yeh?" Billy asks in a soft rush.

Elijah laughs a little, the vibration sending all kinds of hectic trills of pleasure through them both.

"It doesn't have to be bed," he smiles, looking at Billy out of the corners of his eyes. "Here's good too."

Billy's body tells Billy's conscience to shut the fuck up.

Elijah pulls insistently at Billy, gentle rhythmic tugs at his hips that bring their cocks together in delicious jolts. Billy's spine flexes, setting a counter rhythm to Elijah, doubling the impact between them. Billy unbuttons Elijah's jacket and slides his hands inside, palming the swell of Elijah's ribcage and chest. Elijah shrugs and his jacket tips off his shoulders, and Billy pushes it the rest of the way off. Elijah doesn't give Hello Kitty and her pink sari and her rhinestone bindi a second thought. He wraps his arms around Billy's shoulders and rubs himself against Billy, relishing the feel of their bodies separated by only two layers of tee shirt cotton.

Billy slides his hands up inside Elijah's tee shirt, and Elijah gasps. Billy's hands are hard and gentle and knowing, knuckling across Elijah's nipples until Elijah feels the razor flutter of pleasure vibrating in his cock as well as his chest. Elijah drags at his tee shirt, pulling it over his head and letting it drop to the floor.

Billy makes a blurry sound of disbelieving greed and bends his head and Elijah groans out loud as Billy's hands and mouth take careful survey of every inch of Elijah's pale but scorching skin.

"Let's … go somewhere else," Elijah pants, using both hands to pry himself half out of Billy's grip.

Elijah takes Billy by the hand and leads him out of the kitchen. Elijah spies the couch through the living room door and steers them both in there. He turns to face Billy and lets himself just drop back among the couch cushions, legs splayed wide and arms thrown back in blatant invitation.

"Billy."

Billy sets one knee on the edge of the couch between Elijah's open legs and leans down over Elijah.

"Tell me, love," Billy breathes, his fingers working along the intersection between the waist of Elijah's denims and the soft hot skin of Elijah's stomach. "Teach me how to please you."

Elijah lifts his legs, wrapping them around Billy's hips, pulling Billy in harder against his crotch. Billy braces himself with one hand on the couch back, dips his head, and licks Elijah's lips.

"Fuck me," Elijah smiles. "Fuck me as deep and hard as you can."

Billy grinds his mouth down on Elijah's, afraid that another word will break him here and now. Billy's hands work roughly over the buttons of Elijah's jeans. Elijah moans into Billy's mouth and hefts his hips off the couch to let Billy pull Elijah's jeans down around his thighs.

Billy pulls back, dragging Elijah's boots and socks off, licking a stripe from heel to arch to toes on each foot. Elijah squirms; under other circumstances he'd be laughing hysterically, but right now his nerves are so alight that the sensation just brands him with the softness of Billy's tongue.

Billy slides Elijah's jeans the rest of the way down and off. Elijah arches, flexes, feeling the burn of Billy's glass green gaze over his skin. Elijah lifts one bare foot and rubs it speculatively against Billy's cotton-clad hip. Billy's staring fixedly at Elijah's groin, at the awkward aslant angle of Elijah's cock jutting hard beneath the thin cotton of his boxers. Elijah cups his hand over himself, working his fingers slowly over his balls and up his shaft and onto the little petal patch of wet cloth right over the tip of his cock.

"I'm hard Billy," he whispers. "I'm really fucking hard. Do you want to see?"

Billy slips his fingers inside the waist of Elijah's shorts, then glances at Elijah for permission. Elijah lifts his hips again, his thumbs in the back waist of his shorts, and with four hands they shuck Elijah's underwear. Elijah wraps his hand around his cock, squeezing slowly up and down until a drop of precum oozes out of the head. Billy leans in, mesmerized. Elijah feels Billy's breath running hot across the skin of his thighs and balls.

Elijah arches up, one foot braced on Billy's hipbone, pushing himself up at Billy.

"Suck me, Billy. Let me fuck your mouth."

Billy doesn't need to be asked twice. He bends lower and licks up and down the shaft of Elijah's cock, dragging a shaky groan from Elijah. Billy swallows him in one go and slides his mouth up and down. Elijah manages to stifle whatever other embarrassing noises were about to go spilling out of his mouth, restricting himself to a hissing inhalation instead. He starts to move his hips, cautiously at first, then faster and more emphatically. His heel lifts from Billy's hip to Billy's shoulder, and Billy catches hold of him by the ankle and pulls him forward on the couch until Elijah's leg is bent over Billy's shoulder at the knee.

Billy wraps his fingers around the base of Elijah's cock, matching the pressure and pace of his mouth. Elijah claws and clutches at the couch upholstery, cursing softly under his breath. Billy pulls his mouth off Elijah's cock, hitches his shoulder a little further under Elijah's thigh, and starts licking Elijah's balls and sucking them one at a time into his mouth. His fingers keep working smooth strokes on Elijah's cock.

"Oh God, Billy, no – not yet," Elijah pleads, disentangling his leg again and bracing his foot flat on Billy's shoulder.

Billy releases Elijah's cock, and lets both hands work carefully over Elijah's hips, lifting him up, guiding his other foot onto Billy's other shoulder.

"Hhnn … good," Elijah purrs, as Billy's fingers dig gently into the cheeks of Elijah's arse, hitching him higher and closer.

Elijah pushes up, lifting his spine into an arch. Billy thumbs Elijah's arse cheeks apart, and blows cool air against the pink pucker of Elijah's arsehole. Elijah shifts, pushing his arse even further forward and up, nearer to Billy's face.

"Yes, Billy, do it. Stick your fucking tongue up me," Elijah pleads, and Billy takes him at his word, pulling Elijah's arse open and stabbing his tongue in as deep as he can. Elijah arches, his fists white-knuckled on the couch cushions.

"Fuck!" he yells, his whole body shuddering as Billy keeps stabbing, stabbing, fucking Elijah on the soft stiff blade of his tongue.

Billy pulls his tongue out of Elijah's hole, licking and lapping and letting his spit run into the crease of Elijah's arse, turning everything luxuriously wet. He pushes forward, forcing Elijah to take his feet off Billy's shoulders. Elijah pulls his knees in tight to his ribcage, his feet in the air, gripping his own ankles to keep himself stretched almost painfully open to Billy.

Billy pushes a couple of fingers into Elijah's hole, and they go in smooth and easy. Elijah's toes flex and splay, and he tightens his hold on his own ankles. His eyes flicker half-closed, and his breathing turns to shuddering and sighing.

"Do yeh like this then?" Billy hums, his mouth just out of kissing distance from Elijah. There's something fiercely intimate about that, about the way they can't escape looking each other right in face. The corded muscles in Billy's wiry arm work as Billy's hand pushes and pulls and twists.

"I love it," Elijah gasps, dipping and circling his hips to increase the stimulation he's getting.

Spit's not a durable lubricant, Billy can already feel more of the silky soft tissue texture inside Elijah then he should, and Elijah's sounds of appreciation grow sharper and more breathless and threaten to fall away into real cries. Billy withdraws his fingers slowly.

"Oh God, fuck me," Elijah implores, extending one leg onto Billy's shoulder again. "I need it."

"Lube – I haftah find somethin' teh use as lube," Billy says anxiously.

He untangles himself from Elijah, thrusts up onto his feet again, and pounds up the stairs.

Elijah treats himself to a couple of long deep breathes, then writhes luxuriously, rubbing his naked skin against the couch upholstery. From upstairs he can hear the clatter and rattle of Billy gutting the medicine cabinet with both hands. Elijah closes his eyes and runs both hands down his chest, down his belly, under his balls. Less noise from upstairs.

A couple of seconds of pure silence and Elijah sits up.

"Shit."

He gets up and pads out into the hall. Nothing. He goes up stairs and as far as the open bathroom door.

"Did you forget me, or just change your mind?" he asks, not sure if he's joking.

Billy turns his head, and his eyes narrow at the sight of Elijah standing there completely naked and insistently erect.

"Never," Billy says, his little mouth curling itself into a wicked leer. "Vaseline," he says, holding up the tub. "It's all I've got – sorry."

"It's still a classic," Elijah grins.

Billy comes away from the sink and wraps himself around Elijah's naked body.

"Now that yeh're up here, how about trying the bed out?" he murmurs, nuzzling Elijah's ear.

"Are you asking me to go to bed with you?" Elijah teases.

"Yes," Billy says. "That'd be a very big fuckin' yes please."

"Good."

Billy leads Elijah into the bedroom. Billy chucks the Vaseline tub on the bed, pulls his tee shirt off over his head.

"Yeeow," Elijah grins, both hands taking a tour of the stripped muscles of Billy's shoulders and narrow chest.

"Yeh daft bint," Billy laughs, and steers Elijah back towards the bed. Elijah sits down on the edge of the mattress and seizes the opportunity to take some flat-tongued swiping licks at Billy's belly, while easing Billy's sweat pants down off his hips. Elijah strokes his fingertips back and forth over the bulge of Billy's cock still trapped inside his underwear.

"Don't tease me, love," Billy whispers.

Elijah unfolds back onto the bed, his arms thrown back above his head and his legs spread.

"How do you want me?"

"You said you want it deep."

" _Yes._ "

"Lift your legs. Curl up. Show me yer arse," Billy says, stripping his underwear off.

Elijah pulls his knees up and apart. He's wickedly flexible, tucking his kneecaps tight into the hollows in front of his shoulders with his hands on his shins. There's the funny warm too gooey push of Billy's Vaseline coated fingers. Elijah laughs in surprise at how easily they go up his arse. Then Billy climbs onto him, curling over him and leaning down. Billy's cock pushes at Elijah's arsehole and with the Vaseline and the rimming and the way Elijah's stretched wide open it just goes in and Elijah just has time to cry out and Billy's embedded in him.

Billy leans in harder and hitches a little higher, driving most of Elijah's weight onto his shoulders and forcing Billy's cock deeper, deep enough to make Elijah whimper in anticipatory excitement and fear.

"Tell me if it hurts yeh," Billy breathes.

Elijah nods hard, setting his heels on Billy's shoulders

Billy starts to rock, his cock moving forwards and back in Elijah rather than in and out. Elijah slurs a groan of pleasure. Billy adds a scoop and twist to the inexorable movement of his pelvis against Elijah's arse.

"Oh. Fucking good, so _fucking_ good," Elijah groans, twisting his head from side to side against the bed cover.

Billy, panting hard, grabs Elijah by the hair, turns his face to Billy's plunging kiss. The force Billy has to exert to close the gap between their faces drives him even further into Elijah, making Elijah whine in ecstasy. For a second Elijah's tendons and muscles try to fight the extra strain, but the pleasure drenching down Elijah's limbs softens his resistance. Elijah accepts the stretch, lets it happen. One knee eases right down onto the bed beside his ear.

"Oh Christ, Elijah, yeh're so fuckin' good," Billy snarls, rocking harder and harder, crushing Elijah into the mattress.

"Fuck me, just fuck me," Elijah snaps, digging the blunt edges of his fingernails into his own shins.

"I'm goin' teh come," Billy says feverishly. "I'm goin' teh come in yer arse."

Elijah growls and tenses his internal muscles as much as he can given his position, and it's evidently enough because Billy stiffens and stares at Elijah with shocked eyes and then

"I'm fucking comin' I'm fucking comin' in yeh,"

and Elijah could swear he feels the pulse of it way the hell up near where his stomach is. Billy's gulping air and shaking like a crazy man, and Elijah's trying to untangle the two of them as quickly as he can.

"Can I fuck you?" he growls, already pushing Billy's unraveling body face down on the bed and kneeing his way between the backs of Billy's thighs.

"Yes, God yes," Billy says, struggling up onto his knees and elbows.

Elijah thumbs Vaseline around and into Billy's hole, almost coming off when he feels how easy and unresisting Billy's freshly climaxed body is. Elijah finishes off the slick on his hands by wiping it onto the shaft of his cock. He puts one hand on Billy's hip to steady him, the other around his own cock, and pushes in.

"Oh. My fuckin' beautiful boy," Billy groans as Elijah's cock pierces him and slides slowly but steadily home.

Elijah takes hold of Billy by both hips and starts to rock, smooth but quick, and quicker yet.

"I won't last," he pants, as Billy shoves back hard to meet him at every stroke. "Yes that's fucking it that's fucking it Billy."

Elijah's in paradise and paradise is a red firestorm sweeping over his skin and between his legs and into his arse and then everything trips and pulses and he's right there.

"Oh. Fuck yeah … _fuck_ yeah."

Elijah pushes and pushes and Billy makes a noise, beautiful and broken and grateful, and Elijah's heart spasms along with everything else and all he can do is cling to the arch of Billy's spine and let his heart fall and fall and know that it's going to be alright.

Time comes back into focus when Billy shifts apologetically under him.

"Okay," Elijah murmurs, and wincingly withdraws.

Billy, with a faint moan, rolls onto his side and then over onto his back. Elijah's still staring at him in stunned silence.

"Are yeh a'right?" Billy laughs.

"Billy, Billy," Elijah cries, throwing himself down onto Billy and kissing frantically at any bit of skin he can reach. "I love you so fucking much."

Billy's hands still around Elijah's face.

"I love you too."

"I know. I _know_ that."

Cut.


	31. Drabble ("Off the Ropes" AU)

_**Drabble ("Off the Ropes" AU)** _

for [](http://spillingvelvet.insanejournal.com/profile)[**spillingvelvet**](http://spillingvelvet.insanejournal.com/), who asked for a drabble ages ago, but I'm all "Off the Ropes" at the moment.

Karl's never been rough in bed, too aware of his own weight and strength to let himself really lose control. This is a different kind of lust. Orli's a tomcat, light and slender compared to Karl, but lithe and fast and armed with claws like snagged razors. They gear up with padded gloves and head protectors and mouth shields, but Karl still gets a bruise the color of old blood under the tip of his chin. Later, when Orli moves languidly under him, Karl feels such a fury of tenderness that he just gives in, lets go, and really loses control.


	32. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 31 (OB/KU, HW/CB)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 31 (OB/KU, HW/CB)** _

  


"Holy. Shit," Astin says, coming to a halt just inside the door of the back gym, both hands still dug into the thick shock of his tow brown hair.

"I know. He's been at it for twenty minutes straight," Daisy answers, folding his arms and tipping his head from one side to the other.

Orli's rigged the heaviest punch bag they've got so it hangs in the center of the ring. With no gloves, no headgear, no mouth guard, and just a few rounds of tape on his hands, he's hammering out the hardest, fastest, most brutal punch and kick combinations he's got. There's a rapid staccato beat of hands and heels on leather, and Orli's angry grunts of intent, and the rattle of the punch bag jarring on its chain.

"The bag's not as much help as live sparring," Astin says, mostly to himself.

Daisy arches an eyebrow at him.

"If you think I'm getting in there with him, you've got another thing coming," he says. "He's gone flippin' psycho, mate."

Astin moves forward, approaching the ring. Orli twists, hacks out a roundhouse to the bag and follows with an elbow slam that sets the two hundred pound bag spinning.

"I think you've got it on the ropes," Astin says mildly.

Orli throws him glance of pure death and stalks to the corner of the ring. He takes up his water bottle, swills and spits into the bucket, then takes a real drink.

"I'm fast enough but I'm not strong enough," Orli says, looking at Astin with eyes that are slowly returning to sanity. "Urban's used to carrying another fifty pounds around, this is like zero fuckin' gee to him, yeah?"

Astin lets himself feel the smile coming from the pit of his stomach. This is the hardest and best part of training a really great fighter. At some point, they stop being material for you to shape. At some point, they understand that no matter how much you love them, how much you pour your heart and soul and sweat into them, in the end you can't follow them into the ring. In the end it's just them, their body and blood and pain, and they're the ones who are ultimately responsible for winning or losing.

Orli ducks out of the ring between the ropes and drops to the floor.

"I'm gonna push weights for a while. You wanna spot me?"

"Yeah, I'll be right there," Astin says, trailing toward Daisy while Orli swings his towel onto his shoulder and strides out to the front of the gym.

"Psycho," Daisy says again. "You still feeling okay about putting an illegal street fighter into a legitimate fight?"

"Ask me again in eighteen days," Astin says. "After he wins."

Cut.

Karl's tethered a super-fast squash ball to a length of string and hung it from one of the rafters in the gym. It's close enough to the wall that about half the time when he kicks or slaps at it, it hits the whitewashed rough brick surface and ricochets back at him at some screwy angle he can never anticipate. The other half of the time it doesn't strike the wall, just reaches the extent of the string and hurtles back at him along the same trajectory. Either way, his responses are only fast enough to let him re-slap or re-kick the ball about two-thirds of the time. Sometimes he misses it completely; sometimes it catches him a stinging blow on the arm or thigh or butt.

"If we get there an' the other guy's a little black ball, we might as well turn around and go home," Bean grins as he approaches.

Karl flat-hands the ball into the wall and it perversely comes straight back and smacks him in the face.

"Shit!"

Bean flips the towel off his shoulder and hands it to Karl to wipe away the smear of snot and the thread of blood.

"I'm too damn _slow_ ," Karl says bitterly.

Bean frowns; he doesn't like anyone, including Karl, bad-mouthing Karl's abilities as a fighter.

"It's a rubber ball," Bean says seriously. "It's not exactly yer typical opponent, is it? I don't think there's a fighter in the league could do much better."

Karl doesn't bother to answer. He's knows Bean's right, at least as far as the heavier weight classes go, but of course Karl's not thinking about a league fighter. Maybe Karl's just being crazy, but he can all too clearly imagine the child's game this would be for Orli. He can picture Orli ducking and dodging, slamming the ball back at the wall or decisively letting it shoot past him so he can get it on the way back.

Karl returns the used towel to Bean, and takes up the gently swinging ball in his broad palm. Bean steps smartly back of range. Karl hefts the ball and slams it at the wall.

Bean always relishes the growing aggression Karl displays as a fight approaches. Karl's generally a pleasant, easy-going guy, but his devil's stirring now. By fight day everyone, including Bean, will be taking care to tread carefully around him.

Cut.

Hugo, slouchily dressed in a plum-gray sweatshirt and dark jeans, carries a couple of steaming mugs of coffee through to the sitting room of his flat.

"So tell me about the blond woman that works for McKellen," he says, handing off one of the mugs to Bernard, who's sitting at the end of the couch.

"Cate Blanchett?" Bernard says in surprise.

Hugo shrugs. The barman at the Black Jack wouldn't accept Hugo's money when Hugo tried to buy her name; Hugo was impressed by that, and he's quite certain she's already heard about his interest in her.

"About five foot eight, thin, dresses like one of them soddin' fashion models?" Bernard offers. "Manages things in McKellen's club?"

"Yes, that's she."

"That's Cate alright then. Billy Boyd's the one to ask about Cate," Bernard says. "He used to know her pretty well."

Hugo turns his head once in negation. Bernard's forehead corrugates anxiously.

"Christ. There's more to this than Dom Monaghan's twenty grand, isn't there?" he asks.

Hugo allows himself the slight prevarication of a nod. Yes, there's a lot more to Dom Monaghan's predicament than twenty thousand pounds. There's more to Billy Boyd's predicament than concern for his ex-boyfriend, Hugo knows, having seen Boyd enter the Black Jack carrying a small attaché case and emerge without it. There's also more to Hugo's interest in Cate than his responsibility to Dom or Billy or even Bernard.

"I don't know that much," Bernard says apologetically. "I heard she ran away from home or got thrown out or somethin' when she was a teenager. Fell in with some bastard used to recruit runaways for prostitution. Turns out the guy owes McKellen money he can't pay, and McKellen says he'll take the guy's spleen or Cate, debtor's choice. So Cate ends up with McKellen. Oh, not like that," Bernard says, misreading the darkening flicker of Hugo's expression. "McKellen's never had any use for whoring, not for business or pleasure. Funny thing actually: I've never heard of Cate showing any  
interest either way, man or woman, if you get my drift."

"Maybe McKellen's keeping her to himself," Hugo suggests mildly.

"Ho no," Bernard counters. "McKellen's strictly for the boys. Cate's his right hand man, so to speak, but there's nothing untoward going on between them, I'd stake my life on it."

"You said Boyd used to work for McKellen."

"Same job as Cate's doin' now," Bernard nods.

"Any hard feelings between them?"

"Billy's not the kind to hold a grudge, even when he bloody well should," Bernard answers. "Cate now, I imagine she could be a vengeful bitch if it suited her, though I don't see that Billy ever did anything wrong towards 'er. Mightn't stop 'er though; she's hard as fuckin' nails that girl, right through."

After Bernard leaves, Hugo sits for a while considering possibilities, and then impossibilities.

Cut.

There's a second when Billy, peripherally aware of someone standing in the open doorway, lifts his head from his work with a broad grin already splitting his face. Then he sees that it's Cate, and his expression collapses in on itself.

"What kin I do fer you?" he asks, except that it's a flat statement of fact rather than a real question.

Cate crosses the threshold and helps herself to the chair in front of Billy's desk when it becomes clear he's not going to offer it himself.

"Tell me about Hugo Weaving," she says blandly, setting her purse in her black-skirted lap and stripping off her thin leather gloves.

"I don' know 'im," Billy says, without any attempt to hide the lie.

"Yes you do. He's minding Dom. He's not cheap – I can tell by his ties if nothing else – and he's a stone cold professional. Dom doesn't have the sense to hire someone like that; that leaves you."

"Go on, Cate. Let Ian come an' do his own snoopin' fer a change."

"The whole world's not about Ian," Cate sighs, more or less resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"That's almost funny, comin' from you," Billy laughs, a short and joyless sound.

"God, William can you at least accept that he's never been anything but loving and kind to _me_?" Cate pleads.

Billy ducks his head. In the nine years Billy's known her, Cate's grown from a scrawny scared girl to a beautiful and compelling woman, but this argument just repeats unchangingly between them. Billy's just tired of it now.

"What do you want teh know about Hugo?" Billy sighs. It's not like she won't find out anyway, and if she says the information's not for Ian, then it's not.

"Where – where do I find him?" Cate asks, and there's undeniably a faint stain of embarrassment on her cheeks.

Billy hitches an eyebrow wryly.

"I don' know," he says.

"Did you hire him directly?"

"No. He works fer Bernard," Billy frowns, and then, off Cate's questioning glance, "Bernard Hill. He runs a personal security service."

Cate nods, placing the name that she hears it. She stands up, tucking her gloves into the top of her purse.

"Cate?" Billy says anxiously.

Cate hesitates, but doesn't say anything.

"Be a bit careful," Billy smiles wanly.

Cut.


	33. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 32 (this part EW/BB NC-17)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 32 (this part EW/BB NC-17)** _

  


Billy's a worrier: he worries. A dozen twitchy mice scurry night and day on the wire wheels inside Billy's head, keeping his conscience up to its quota of scruples and second thoughts and regrets.

Billy stirs in his sleep, his forehead wrinkling and his mouth pursing up in sleepily annoyance as midmorning sunlight shines through unclosed curtains onto his face. Billy opens his eyes, blinking, trying to make sense of the naked sprawl of his own limbs and the twisted mess of the bedclothes and the low warm hum of his blood inside his skin.

"Elijah?" Billy whispers, as if afraid to test the name with the full sound of his voice.

Elijah, just out of reach behind a barricade of pillows and tumbled blankets, makes a blurred but cheerful noise and starts to burrow his way to Billy. He buries his face in Billy's lightly furry chest and makes contented little animal sounds. Billy lifts one hand, petting fondly at the spiked mess of Elijah's dark hair.

When Billy's fingers stray lower, shaping out the curve at the nape of Elijah's neck and the soft roll of muscle between Elijah's shoulder blades, the quality of the sounds Elijah's making changes. He hums with more intent, almost inquiringly.

Billy can already feel his own body unfolding and reassembling into softness and want, hardness and hunger. Elijah wriggles some more, partially shifting himself onto Billy, one leg between Billy's spread thighs. Billy moves a little, rolling his hips enough to ensure that Elijah's aware of his interest. Elijah laughs softly into Billy's sternum.

"Mah darlin' boy," Billy whispers.

Elijah lifts his head, fixing Billy with sparkling eyes and wicked grin, fighting not to laugh out loud.

"Billy."

Elijah's hands are already wandering up and down Billy's narrow torso, exploring all the turns and edges that describe Billy's hips and ribs and chest.

"Again?" Billy teases, when Elijah shifts just enough to put his already rigid cock against the softly fuzzy skin of Billy's inner thigh. "Yeh're a dirty little sprite, aren't yeh?"

Elijah, by way of answer, darts out his tongue and flicks it across Billy's left nipple, making Billy hiss and hitch and tighten his fists. Elijah dips his head, and Billy feels his smile in the taut heat of his lips on Billy's nipple, tugging and teasing.

Billy's breath turns shallow and he pushes against Elijah, his cock already leaking a tiny slickness onto the skin inside the cup of Elijah's hipbone. Elijah puts his weight on one elbow, opening enough space between their bodies for his free hand to draw all kinds of delicately burning circles and spirals over Billy's belly and thighs and balls. Elijah's fingertips are silky soft, like the pulpy flesh of ripe fruit. Billy's cock hardens urgently, and Billy squirms, longing for some kind of direct contact there.

Elijah shifts lower, mouthing the curves under Billy's ribs, and the sun shines unobstructed again into Billy's face. Elijah's soft lips trail open-mouthed kisses past Billy's navel and onto the crests of Billy's hips. Billy stirs, shaky with hurried desire.

"Shhh," Elijah whispers, the heated rush of his breath stirring the hair at the root of Billy's cock, which of course does nothing for Billy's composure.

Billy's not sure they've spoken a complete sentence to each other – except for 'I love you' – since Elijah kissed him sixteen hours ago. Billy knows they can't stay like this forever, or even for long, suspended in a semi-silence of time and day turning into night and their bodies reaching blindly for each other over and over again. Sooner or later they'll going to have to emerge out of this cocoon of skin and sheets and soft kisses. But not yet, not quite yet.

Elijah moves even lower, his too soft fingers teasing over the hardness of Billy's erection. Billy arches and lifts his hips.

"I'm gonna suck you," Elijah says quietly, his voice uncharacteristically rough from too much growling and groaning.

"Fuck," Billy breathes, fisting both hands behind his head and staring at the tantalizingly small space between the leaking head of his cock and Elijah's breathlessly parted lips.

"After," Elijah says, and Billy arches up at the feel of Elijah's curled-tongue smile and humming laughter wrapping close around Billy's cock.

Billy twists his head from side to side, trying to get some control over the sparkling shocks of sensation running up and down his nerves. It should be getting harder and harder for him to climax each time, but the truth is Elijah is rapidly mastering the particular pressures and rhythms and touches that can be counted on to undo Billy. And Billy's body is rapidly learning to trust and respond to Elijah, so in fact Billy's falling faster and more freely each time. His body's becoming an unresisting jumble of desire and delight that Elijah can tie up in a bow without even trying.

"So fuckin' good," Billy says, writhing under Elijah's mouth. "So fuckin' … so fuckin … "

Billy's body begins to tighten, his movements becoming more patterned and purposeful. Elijah pushes down on Billy's hips and pulls back slowly, letting the wet tip of Billy's cock slide heavily over his spit-slick lower lip. Elijah moves onto his knees again and straddles Billy, his legs spread wide and folded under on either side of Billy's hips. Billy stirs, fiercely aroused but satisfied to let Elijah take the lead.

Elijah reaches between them and grips Billy's cock; Billy's foot slips on the bed sheet. Elijah angles himself, presses the head of Billy's cock to his own arse.

"Don' yeh need a bit o'somethin'?" Billy asks, faintly resisting Elijah's pull.

"Nah. You've got me fucked into pretty good shape here," Elijah grins, then his expression breaks and turns darkly intent as he lowers himself down, pushing Billy's cock smoothly and strongly up into himself. Billy hisses a sharp inhalation of breath and takes hold of Elijah's waist, riding a sudden wave of dizzying heat.

"Och fuck that's sweet."

"Yeah," Elijah grins, leaning back a little and working himself in lazy circles on Billy's cock.

Billy's eyes close, and Elijah's head drops forward as he considers Billy from under half-lowered eyelashes.

Billy is barely an inch or so taller than Elijah; his body is narrow and taut, tightly rigged with sinews and slender stony muscles and roped veins snaking just below the creamy, gold-flecked skin of his forearms.

Elijah dips forward, covering Billy's small mouth with the fleshier wider curves of his own lips, thrusting his tongue between Billy's teeth. Billy moans. The kiss is spit slippery; Elijah's mouth completely muffles Billy's. Elijah works himself harder, a little faster, making the sensation of Billy's cock up his ass grow red and dark and devilish.

Elijah reaches forward, catches Billy's wrists in his hands and pins them down into the mattress. Billy stutters a gasp of excitement, his eyes still squeezed shut and his teeth bared as he thrusts up hard to meet Elijah's movements. Elijah stares at Billy's hands, at the delicacy of his small fingers and fingernails. There are places, mouth and wrists and the corner of a jaw, where Elijah is built just a little larger, a little more heavily, than Billy. Something utterly new ignites in the pit of Elijah's stomach, a fierce gentle fire, a sort of proud possessive pity. The feeling swells until it's pressing through the skin of Elijah's belly and chest.

"There, that's it, there, oh sweet Jesus," Billy pants, his eyes snapping open to look at Elijah in sudden shock.

"I love you. I fucking love you Billy," Elijah hisses, grinding himself down on Billy's cock as hard as he can until Billy stills and stiffens and then sobs jaggedly as his orgasm throbs weightily through him.

Cut.

It's evening, the gloom gathering in the corners of the room for the second time when Billy begins to talk. They're lying curled around each other in the mess of the bed, their bodies half-numbed with pleasure, Elijah lying on Billy's shoulder while Billy's fingers idle slowly over the thin skin of Elijah's temple.

Billy tells Elijah everything. He tells about working for McKellen, dealing out casual cruelty to anyone that crossed him or, worse, his boss. He tells about spending three years in prison for manslaughter, thinking that he'd shattered his life and he'd never have a chance of anything decent again. He tells about loving Dom, realizing that the little life he'd had scraped together for himself was never going to be enough for Dom.

The room is filled with purple twilight when Billy tells Elijah that Billy's broken a solemn vow before God, that he's borrowed twenty thousand pounds from half-a-dozen of the most respected bookies in the city, and he's tried – and failed – to buy McKellen off. The choice, it seems, is Dom's and so far Dom hasn't so much as acknowledged Billy's effort to help him.

Through it all Elijah is silent. Billy might almost suspect Elijah of being asleep, were it not for the slow sweep of his eyelashes against the skin of Billy's chest. After Billy's done, Elijah unwraps himself from Billy and goes downstairs. Billy follows him as far as the top of the stairs, and hears Elijah speaking.

"This is fucked up, telling this to a machine but … you're never there Dom. In case you haven't noticed, I'm gone. We're done. I know it sounds kinda shitty but … I'm with Billy now. I'm sorry, I didn't mean things to get so …

… fuck, Dom. What the fuck are you looking for? Why can't it ever be enough for you, just having someone who loves you?

Look. Whatever it is you're looking for, I hope it works out."

Elijah's voice, which has been growing progressively quieter, finally cracks into a dry whisper.

"Goodbye Dom."

Elijah hangs the receiver up very carefully. Somewhere far off he feels the thick dark roll of thunder. He lets his legs fold, sliding himself slowly down the wall onto the chill tiled floor of the hallway. The storm rumbles right behind his eyes. He looks up, and sees Billy standing at the top of the stairs, his face almost unrecognizable in its pained compassion.

Elijah's eyes fill. The sky cracks, and tears cascade down Elijah's cheeks like sheets of rain.

Cut.


	34. Double drabble (AU "Off the Ropes")

_**Double drabble (AU "Off the Ropes")**_

  
  
They begin by speaking different languages of body and blood. Karl tries to close, looking for the single killing blow that can end a round. Orli tries to stay back, chipping away at Karl with brief stinging strikes. The fights are frustrating, and end with a lucky blow or a misjudgment.

In bed, they speak each other's skin with absolute fluency.

Karl tries for a body punch; Orli blocks it and doesn't misstep under the impact. Orli twists, using his grip on Karl to pin him for a snap kick, but Karl's fast enough to block it. Impasse. They break and move away, gazing at each other with hot-eyed wonder.

In sleep, they lie tangled together so tightly that their lips are almost touching. They sip breath from each other's mouths, learning the tidal rhythm of each other's heart and lungs.

They both feel it when it happens. Two weeks out from the fight, and the thread that holds each of them to himself breaks and they become a single wheeling, striking, twisting dance. The world folds in on itself, reduced to the perfect to and fro between them, the rhythm between Orli's strength and Karl's speed.  



	35. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 33 (this part DM/VM, NC-17).

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 33 (this part DM/VM, NC-17).** _

A/N: Can't believe how long this has taken. I'm not in the least running out of ideas or interest, just finding it hard to get writing time.

Dom has already taken to sleeping on the couch every night, and keeping his clothes on the back of the armchairs. When he opens the bedroom closet and is confronted by fifty thinly swinging wire hangers and a gaping void where Elijah's clothes used to hang, his first reaction is a wry acceptance. Of course Elijah's chosen this particular moment to walk out on him: Dom's down to his last ragged shreds of money, time, and sanity. It would be jarringly inconsistent if he were allowed to keep his boyfriend. Dom assumes Elijah's with Liv, and thinks about calling, but there's so fucking much going on right now that Dom's not even sure he has anything helpful to say, so he lets it go.

Elijah's message is kind of a thunderbolt out of a blue sky, though. Dom didn't know Elijah and Billy had ever met, let alone that things had advanced so far that they'd shack up together. Boyd's a sly little fucker when he wants to be, knows how to keep stuff to himself. And Elijah. It's not the first time Dom's been forced to admit there's something more than nothing going on behind those big blue eyes. Besides, the kid's a fucking whore for it, Dom's been pretty preoccupied, and Billy's a fucking lunatic in bed when you get him the right way. After thinking it through for ten minutes, Dom's only surprised that he was ever surprised.

It takes another hour or so of reflection for Dom to convince himself it's all for the best really. Dom's playing the big league now, standing his ground against Ian fucking McKellen. Dom knows with absolute certainty that this thing's gonna end with him accepting his hundred thousand quid in winnings from McKellen, and Dom's gonna be prince of everything he fucking surveys. It's just that things might get a little rough before then, and maybe it's best that Elijah's out of harm's way. God knows the kid has no instinct or talent for trouble. And Billy's a good guy, very grounded, very sensible; he'll keep Elijah safe. And when everything's worked out to Dom's satisfaction, maybe he'll see about mending some bridges with Elijah. Nothing says 'sorry' like a nice holiday in Paris with all the trimmings. And Billy will surely see that he can't hope to keep Elijah's interest indefinitely.

Dom doesn't like the jangle of the wire hangers tangling on the closet rail, so he gathers them up and throws them in the trash out in the back alley. The cardboard boxes and the sports bag at the bottom of the closet bother him too, so he shoves them over to his side, where the tails of his hanging shirts and the hems of his pants soften their hard edges somewhat. He makes a point of not washing out the coffee cups Elijah left around the flat, or getting rid of the half pack of cloves on the kitchen counter. With very little effort Dom's able to hold himself in a kind of half-reality: Elijah's not here, but he's not exactly gone either.

Cut.

Dom wakes in the dark, his limbs twisted painfully on the sagging seat of the couch, his heart hammering in his chest and his breath shattering in his mouth. His skin is slick with sweat and spattered with his own semen. He kicks his way free of the tangled blanket and stumbles towards the bedroom. He needs to bury this, dig down into Elijah's sweet mouth and soft flesh and lose the thing eating at his entrails. His hand is on the doorknob when he remembers Elijah's not in there.

Dom unrolls his spine against the cold paintwork of the doorframe, lets his head fall up and back until his skull meets wood with a solid thunk. He feels like a child suddenly adrift in a world of hard-eyed adults. He lets himself fold, sliding down the doorframe until he's crouched on the fuzzy threadbare carpet on the threshold. His shoulders begin to shake, jerking up and down, and his breath takes up the same broken rhythm, but his eyes burn hot and dry.

Cut.

Dom's got his granddad's gold pocket watch and his grandmum's four-piece sterling silver tea service. From past experience, Dom knows that their combined pawn value is around nine hundred quid, which will keep him in decent style for the remaining thirteen days until fight day and Dom's hundred thousand pound payout. Dom's pawned and redeemed his heirlooms so often that it's become almost a ritual, though Dom only resorts to it when he's flat broke and right out of options. It's almost like an admission of desperation, a sign that he's submitting himself fully to the whim of fortune. An appeal for leniency.

With nine hundred and fifty quid in his wallet, Dom returns home to shower and shave and array himself in his sharpest suit and loudest tie. Just thirteen more days, and every player in this town will know his name. Dominic Monaghan, the smart bastard that picked the fighter to beat Karl Urban, the crazy son-of-a-bitch that brokered a last ditch bet through Ian McKellen and walked away with a hundred grand. They're gonna be telling this story forever.

Cut.

Orli's already showered and back in his street clothes by the time Dom gets to the gym.

"Hey," Dom says, sauntering down the aisle of lockers with both hands stuffed in the pockets of his suit pants.

Orli looks up from shoving his sweats into his duffle bag. He smiles, but the curve of his mouth lacks conviction and his eyes lack their usual sparkle.

"Hey man," he says, almost seriously.

Dom's heart contracts. He can cope with anything as long as Orli's okay. Orli not being okay doesn't bear thinking about.

"I'm … I'm sorry about you an' Elijah, yeah?" Orli says gently.

Dom, though he knows it makes him a shit, feels his heart swell back to normal size and his breath unlatch itself.

"Oh. Yeah, well," he says at random, and then frowns in confusion. "How did you even know?"

"He asked me to help him move his stuff," Orli shrugs.

Dom's frown tightens even more. When the hell did Elijah and Orli get to be such tight buddies? Fuck it, that kid has a winning way with everybody in Dom's life.

Orli shifts from foot to foot and rolls his shoulders, trying to get comfortable in his skin.

"Look, man," he says abruptly. "It's none of my business but it would have been nice if you'd told him you were fucking around on him. I thought he knew. Jesus. I'd never have made a pass at him only I thought you guys were cool with that stuff. I felt fucking shite that he found out from me. He should have heard it from you, Dom, not some guy he just went with for a laugh."

"He went with for -- ? _You fucked my boyfriend_?" Dom cries in righteous outrage. "Are you outta your fuckin' mind Bloom?"

"Hey," Orli says indignantly.

"You had no fucking right," Dom shouts, slamming the locker door next to him so hard it bounces back on its hinges and swings to and fro. "He was with me!"

"Shite on a stick," Orli snaps. "I had exactly as much right with him as I had with you. Just piss off, okay?"

Dom's expression suddenly turns hard and cold.

"You signed a year's contract with me. You can't get out of it now, you're stuck with me," he says evenly.

Orli opens his mouth but nothing comes out for a few seconds, and when it does his voice is a mixture of anger and exasperation and pity.

"I don't wanna get out of anything," he says. "You're the best bloody manager I could wish for. You got me into this gym, you got Sean fuckin' Astin as my trainer. You got me a shot at the title against Karl. I got no complaints Dom. But you were an asshole to Elijah and you know it."

Dom doesn't answer, doesn't let go of his anger for fear of what might take its place. Orli rakes his fingers through the tangle of his still damp curls.

"Just … Dom, you're so sure everyone's gonna fuck you over that you don't even give them a chance to do anything else," he sighs.

Dom has to rein his breathing carefully to absorb the pain of that. For the first time, he suspects that Orli might know a whole lot more than just how to fight.

Orli takes up his bag from the bench.

"I gotta go, I've got a date," he says wearily.

Dom nods, and shifts slightly to let Orli pass him on his way out.

Astin and Daisy don't ask after Elijah, confirming Dom's suspicion that they know about the break up too. Bloody Orlando. Nine times out of ten he's worse than a bird.

Dom uses the phone in Astin's office to call Viggo at home, announcing in high good humor that he's unexpectedly free for the next few hours, and if Viggo's still in search of material for his book Dom would be happy to come by. Viggo almost chokes in his enthusiasm, sure, sure if Dom has the time to spare Viggo would really appreciate his input. Dom smirks; Viggo's either a very committed writer or in bad need of a fuck. Viggo's probably convinced himself it's one thing, but Dom knows it's the other.

After he hangs up on Viggo, Dom wanders back out to the gym and asks idly if either Astin or Daisy  
know anything about the guy Orli's seeing.

"That he's sure as hell not interfering with Orli's fight training," Astin says.

"That they're playing pretty rough together," Daisy says with ill-concealed glee. "Orli's got bruises he didn't get here."

Dom frowns at this.

"Don't worry about it," Daisy says archly. "Orli knows when to stop. He's too smart to risk something he cares about for a fuck."

Dom bites back the urge to respond to that and walks out.

"God. You're a bitch," Astin says to Daisy admiringly.

Cut.

The evening traffic's already snarling up when Dom gets back to his car, and it's slow progress through the city streets. Dom has plenty of time, in a first-gear crawl, to look around him. He spots a street-hawker on a corner flogging attaché cases from a fold-up table, and a smile flicks over his face. He pulls part way out of the traffic stream, double-parking alongside an already expired meter. He gets out of the car, ignoring the outraged horn honking of those drivers trapped behind him, and jogs to the corner.

"That," Brad announces with wild-eyed fervor, "is leather made from the hides of purebred Jersey cows – softest leather in the world that is. Hand sewn by cottage artisans in the west of Ireland. For Christ's sake, you can't buy workmanship like that for under a thousand quid these days. But I'm in a position to get these at one tenth of the usual wholesale price – did a favor for Mister Gucci himself, don't ask, I won't tell. Suffice to say, I am offering you the unrepeatable bargain price of forty-five quid each, two for an incredible seventy quid the pair."

"I'll take two," Dom laughs, and peels a fifty and a twenty off the fold of bank bills he extracts from his wallet.

"See that?" Brad says to the rest of the potential buyers gathered around him. "Young man knows a bargain when he sees it. You gonna doubt the judgment of a sharp dressing man like that?"

Dom graces the onlookers with a cheery wink and takes his purchases to the car, where he dumps them on the back seat.

Cut.

"What's in the attaché case?" Viggo asks, moving back from the open front door of his house to let Dom in.

One of the things Viggo's noticed about Dom is that he's never burdened by anything that won't fit smoothly into his suit pockets.

"Air," Dom answers as he passes through to the sitting room. "This one's for you."

He more or less shoves the case at Viggo. Viggo accepts, turning it over in his hands. The chintzy fake Gucci clasp aside, it's a modest and well-made article: soft russet brown leather lined with paler, tan leather, a brass zipper, and several inside pockets.

"This one?" Viggo echoes.

"I had to pick up something to hold my winnings come payday," Dom smirks, pulling his tie open and shrugging his suit jacket on the couch. "See the size inside? That's about the size of a hundred, twelve hundred grand, in small bills."

Viggo reconsiders the case.

"So you have one just like this?"

"Just like."

"And it'll hold a hundred thousand pounds?"

"Yeah."

A hundred thousand doesn't sound all that much to Viggo, not compared to the size of the mortgage he's carrying on the house. But suppose you don't have a mortgage and a car payment and an ex-wife … suppose you don't owe anyone anything except twenty thousand in gambling debts, then a hundred thousand starts to look pretty incredible. Eighty thousand pounds. That's a lot of sharp suits and steak dinners, which seem to be Dom's staple requirements.

Dom takes the case out of Viggo's hands and sets it down next to his discarded suit jacket. Viggo falters a little as Dom matter-of-factly opens the buttons of Viggo's shirt.

"Dominic -- "

"Now now, Viggo. Don't act like you weren't expecting it," Dom coaxes, starting on the buttons of his own shirt.

Viggo makes some faint protest that gives way under Dom's hands and hips and the brush of Dom's bare chest against Viggo's.

"I don' know what you thought, but I came over with the express intention of fucking you," Dom says mildly, both hands working lightly and skillfully over Viggo's skin.

Viggo tries to steady his breathing but he's already shuddering and pushing himself forward and grinding against Dom. Dom grins as Viggo pushes Dom's shirt off and fingers the palely freckled skin of Dom's shoulders and arms.

Dom steps back, tugging on Viggo's wrist, and guides him upstairs and onto the bed. Viggo is intent on stripping Dom, licking and sucking at the razored muscles of Dom's lean body. Dom, in turn, works at getting Viggo's clothes off.

"You fucking love this, don't you?" Dom teases, when he has Viggo stripped naked. "You love getting fucked."

Viggo refuses to answer, determined to lose himself in the sensation of Dom's hard-edged body writhing on top of his.

"I bet you love fucking too," Dom goes on ruthlessly, hitching his cock against Viggo's. "You loved fucking Orli, right?"

Viggo stifles the incriminating sound trying to escape from his throat, and tries for an expression approximating innocence, which is not easy with Dom's fingers working slow circles of fire on the skin of Viggo's inner thighs.

"Don't try to bullshit a bullshitter," Dom grins against Viggo's chest. "He let you fuck him, right?"

Viggo makes a strangled sound that might be affirmative or negative or just grateful as Dom slides both hands between Viggo's legs and draws his palms firmly up over Viggo's balls and cock.

"He let you fuck him," Dom says again, his lips shaping out the words against the burning skin of Viggo's nipple. "You saw him in the ring, you know what he is, what he can do, and you fucked him."

Viggo gasps, some vital inner cohesion giving way under the onslaught of Dom's mouth and hands and words.

"You know what Orli was before I picked him up?" Dom asks, his tone sinking back into idle indifference as he crooks Viggo's knee enough to expose Viggo's ass.

Dom stills, waiting for an answer. Viggo shakes his head, not trusting his voice. Dom grins, hitching his hip in under the back of Viggo's thigh.

"He was a street fighter. Illegal fights, no rules, no rounds, no referee. Just two guys going at it, bare knuckles, until one of them can't go on. You know what it looks like when a guy gets hit in face with another guy's fist?"

Viggo shakes his head again, more emphatically this time, he doesn't know or doesn't want to know, though his body's intent on pushing against Dom's probing fingers.

"It's fucking ugly," Dom purrs, staring into Viggo's widening eyes. "It's not like it is on TV, not even after nine o'clock. There's blood, yeah, but there's snot and spit and tears too. First time I saw Orli, his eye looked like a split plum and the blood from his nose was dripping off his chin. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine that beautiful fucking face fucked up like that?"

Viggo groans in abject surrender, letting his legs fall open and Dom's appalling words drop like warm honey onto Viggo's fragile skin. Viggo's not sure he _can_ see those pictures in his head, but the very attempt to conjure them fills his body with a slow gutter swirl of hard and hungry and dirty.

"And there's no rules," Dom goes on, pushing the tips of his fingers into Viggo's arse, and Viggo writhes and pushes himself further down onto them. "There's no one to tell them when to stop. As long as they keep getting up, the fight keeps going. You know how much punishment the human body can take?"

Dom twists his wrist, driving a harsh grunt from deep inside Viggo's chest. Viggo snarls, his spine hitching into a high arch.

"It's un-fucking-believable," Dom goes on, working his fingers deep inside Viggo's body. "Covered in blood, fingers broken, noses broken … they're like animals."

Dom shifts, aligns, stabs forward with his hips, and Viggo's head drops back and Viggo groans as Dom's cock thrusts home.

"Guys die in those fights. It doesn't take as much as you'd think. A bad fall onto concrete. You think Orli's ever killed a man?"

"Has he?" Viggo demands, desperately trying to hold his body back from the complete disintegration that's threatening just below his skin.

"I don't know," Dom lies. "Maybe. Maybe Orli's beaten someone to death with his bare hands. You think about that? You think about what it takes to do that?" Dom insists, his voice breaking as he thrusts roughly into Viggo.

Viggo shakes his head, clutching at Dom's sinewy shoulders, grinding his teeth together to stifle the urge to cry out.

"Orli could do it. I've seen him fight two men at once – big bastards, Irish guys working construction, he beat the two of them into a mess. He's gonna do it to Urban -- "

there that's the second, Viggo makes a sound like a sob of desperation and comes, wet and warmth sliding between them with a butterfly pulse

" – he's gonna fucking destroy the guy. Orli's gonna be a star, a fucking legend, and I own him," Dom grinds, and that's the one that does it for him, that rips him open and lets the sparkle inside come pumping out.

Dom tries to stay up on his hands, but his elbows give out and he collapses on Viggo's still heaving chest.

"And you fucked him," Dom grins, nuzzling his way down Viggo's body, past the working edge of ribcage and hollow stomach and sharp hip.

Viggo moves languorously.

"What the hell are you doing to me, Dominic?" Viggo asks, and the words sound blurry even to himself.

"Nothing you don't want," Dom hums against the crease of skin between Viggo's groin and thigh.

Cut.

Dom's long gone when Viggo awakes from what might have been a deep sleep or a light faint. Dom's going to kill Viggo, from dehydration if nothing else.

Viggo drags himself off the bed, pulls on jeans and a shirt, and wanders through the house, vaguely in search of his sanity. He comes to rest in the doorway of the living room, and sees the attaché case still sitting where Dom abandoned it on the couch. He picks it up, turning it over in his hands, smiling despite himself. He goes on through to the small back room that serves as his study.

Abruptly he sweeps aside the mass of paper and books and notebooks and sets the attaché case down in the new space. He sits, and clicks his computer back to life. He opens a new document; the template includes a section for footnotes. Viggo closes that again, opens a blank window. He looks at the attaché case, and starts typing hesitantly.

"Off the Ropes: an Academic's Adventures Among the Warriors. A novel by Viggo Mortensen."

Cut.


	36. Drabble ("Off the Ropes" AU, OB/KU)

_**Drabble ("Off the Ropes" AU, OB/KU)** _

  


The one thing Karl has that Orli can't match is legitimate fight experience. Orli's been street-fighting since he was fourteen years old, but too many of those bouts have been against opponents who brought only brute strength and savagery to the task. Orli's never had to develop the kind of strategy and subtlety that Karl possesses.

They lie together in the dark, fingers moving languidly on cooling skin; Karl tells the ceiling everything he knows about fighting. About judgments made and marred in the second between an attack and a defense, and Orli soaks it in, every word, every touch.

100.


	37. Drabble ("Off the Ropes" AU, OB/KU)

_**Drabble ("Off the Ropes" AU, OB/KU)** _

  


Orli doesn't fight defense; he takes a punch if it'll get him an opening for attack.

"You can't afford to do that with me," Karl warns. "You have to keep me out."

Orli tells Karl about street fighting, about putting a grown man in the hospital at sixteen, about going home with his lip busted and his nose smashed open at seventeen. About fighting with knives and chains and broken bottles. About learning that he could fly. About realizing that a second is much longer for him than it is for other people.

"Thanks for letting me in," Karl murmurs.


	38. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 34.

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 34.** _

  


The attaché case containing Billy's twenty thousand pounds remains on the side table in Ian's sitting room at the casino club. Cate doesn't bother locking it up; the cleaners know better than to pry into Ian's affairs, and no one's stupid enough even to think about stealing money from this particular business. Cate briefly considers cashing the money into the casino's takings for convenience, but Ian has odd ideas about the fungibility of cash. He's going to want Dom to receive _this_ twenty thousand pounds in _this_ attaché case. Cate leaves it where it is, but three days later she's genuinely worried about Ian's uncharacteristic delay in dealing with the matter.

"What's happening?" Cate asks, when she comes in to find Ian methodically packing stacks of banded banknotes into one of his own briefcases.

"Twenty thousand pounds. It's not that much really," Ian says thoughtfully, as if he hasn't even heard Cate's question. "Not if you already owe twenty thousand pounds, I mean. It's not freedom. It pays off your debt all right, but what then? Not a sot left to try your luck on anything else. Not exactly _independence_. But I expect William thought of all that, when he decided how much money to offer Dominic."

"William didn't offer anything to Dominic," Cate says anxiously. "He meant that money for you, remember? It was your idea to make it Dominic's choice."

Ian looks at her, his expression almost surprised.

"Ian. What _is_ going on?" Cate insists.

She glances into the case under Ian's hands. The stacks are medium-to-small denomination used bills, nothing bigger than a hundred pound note. No one alive can do a quicker or more accurate cash estimate than Cate.

"There's – there's over a hundred thousand here," she says.

"Hundred and eleven," Ian nods. "What Dominic would collect on Urban's defeat at the odds we got for him, less tax."

"If Urban loses."

"If. I want you to take this to Dominic's flat and leave it somewhere safe."

"And tell him _what_?"

"I don't want you to tell him anything. I don't want him to know it comes from me."

"Ian! Dominic Monaghan does not have the kind of friends who just drop a hundred and eleven thousand in cash on him. Where do you _think_ he's going to think it comes from?"

"I don't care if he thinks it's from the bloody Tooth Fairy. It's more money than that little punk's ever seen in one place, he won't care."

"So if he's got any sense he'll grab it and run."

"But if he's got any balls he'll stick around."

Cate knows Ian too well to miss the glint in his hooded eyes.

"What are you playing at?"

"Tooth Fairy."

"You're being ridiculous."

"I'm sixty four, I've money in the bank, and the hardest-bitten fuckers in this town walk soft around me. I've earned the right to be ridiculous."

Cate glances to the side table, where Billy's case is still in residence.

"What do you think you're buying?" Cate asks, reaching out to cover Ian's hand with her own.

"Insight. I want to know if Dominic will run. I want to know if he'll take William's money if he doesn't have to."

"Because he'll be sitting on a hundred and eleven grand from the Tooth Fairy," Cate snorts. "You're bloody mad."

"And don't you forget it," Ian rumbles pleasantly, closing the case and snapping the locks shut.

Cut.

"That," Brad declaims to the thin mid-afternoon crowd of onlookers, "is South American shagging ostrich skin. Tanned in human fucking brains, by Papua New Guinean bloody cannibal tribesmen."

Brad's on pills for his sinuses and they're messing him up something wonderful. Some of the potential buyers gawp in horror but some are laughing.

"Give me one," Cate says, shoving forty-five quid in crisp cash at Brad and yanking the case out of his admittedly floppy grip.

Brad draws a deep breath and opens his mouth.

"Don't even fucking think about it," Cate snaps and turns on her heel.

Brad sways, overcome by something; he's just not sure what.

" _Jesus_."

Cate gets back in the car and slams the driver's door shut. She opens Brad's attaché case and rips out the protective plastic liner, then clicks open the catches on Ian's briefcase and raises the lid.

Quickly but neatly Cate transfers the contents of Ian's briefcase to the attaché case. At least she can salvage Ian's beautiful custom-made case. If Ian asks, Cate can say it was too conspicuous so she decided to put the money in something more anonymous.

Cut.

Cate's got a bloke on the corner across from Dom's flat, and when Dom goes off for the evening Cate gets the call and drives herself and the attaché case with Ian's hundred and eleven grand over there. The latch on the front of the flat's a joke, it takes Cate exactly twenty seconds and she's in, pressing her hand over her nose and mouth at the assaulting smell of flat beer and dirty laundry and male.

She looks around, tempted to just lob the attaché case onto the nearest pile of clothing, but she owes Ian a bit more than that. The trouble is, the stratifications of mess look well established; if she doesn't put the case down on top of things in plain sight it may disappear forever.

She makes her way reluctantly to the bedroom, but actually the air in there's a little cleaner. The bed, though thoroughly rumpled, has only the faintly musty scent of long unused sheets. The closet's lying wide open, one side completely bare, the other densely packed with hanging clothes and a stack of two cardboard boxes and a sports bag under the rail.

Cate glances around again, but it's all meaningless to her anyway, she wouldn't be able to tell Dominic's things from anyone else's. She knows there was a boy, though, and now it seems he's gone. Cate frowns.

She hunkers down, sweeping the ends of the hanging clothes aside. The sports bag on top of the boxes is lying on its side, zipper half-open. She yanks it further forward and opens it the rest of the way. There's a twist of sweatpants and tee shirts and sneakers inside. Cate puts the attaché case into the bag's open mouth so that it's half-in, half-out, and readily visible without moving anything on the rail above. She stands, unconsciously dusting her hands off on her skirt, and makes her way out of the flat again.

Cate comes out of the street door and, without the slightest sign of hesitation or surprise, looks directly across the street to where Hugo is sitting in his parked car. Hugo straightens in his seat and his fingers go to the keys hanging in the ignition, but he doesn't turn them.

Cate glances left and right, pausing for a gap in the traffic, and then walks quickly across to the car. Hugo rolls the window down on his side. Cate comes right up to the car, leaning down into the open window, her hair slipping down into a smooth pale curtain around her face.

"Honestly? I don't think he's in danger from anything except stupidity," she says.

"That's not particularly comforting," Hugo replies.

Cate smirks, and several of the tightly wound springs and wires inside Hugo abruptly pop free and fly off in all directions. Neither of them notices a battered blue Fiat pulling in on the other side of the street, or Elijah and Orli climbing out, slamming the car doors shut, and making their way up the steps and through the front door of the house.

"Why are you even here?" Cate asks.

"My employer's lying to me. It's irritating."

"I can't begin to imagine," Cate says primly.

Hugo laughs, a big deep-chested sound that surprises both of them.

He watches her go back to her car, and when she drives away he has to make a conscious decision to pull into the traffic going in the opposite direction.

Cut.

"Thanks for the help again," Elijah says as he and Orli round the turn of the stairs and stop at the front door of Dom's flat.

"No big, yeah?" Orli smiles.

"I just … I don't wanna make things awkward for you, with Dom I mean," Elijah says a little sheepishly as he fits his key in the lock and opens the door.

"Shit. If I start resenting people because their relationships didn't work out, I'm gonna run outta people pretty fuckin' fast."

Elijah grins back because it's hard not to.

"So, just the stuff in the closet then?" Orli asks, pushing the door closed behind him and following Elijah down the narrow hallway.

"Eh … yeah," Elijah says, glancing around the living room. Nothing's changed, not even the stained coffee mug he abandoned on the windowsill a week ago, yet the flat seems suddenly unfamiliar. "There's some books too; I'll get those if you grab the other stuff."

"No problem," Orli nods, going through to the bedroom while Elijah hunkers down to the bookshelf behind one of the armchairs and starts pulling out the few textbooks and paperbacks that belong to him.

Orli locates the two cardboard boxes and the sports bag under the side of the rail occupied by Dom's clothes. Orli heaves a sigh, dragging the pile towards him. The attaché case slides forward a little further out of the gaping mouth of the bag. Orli shoves it back in, pulls the zipper closed, and slings the bag strap over his shoulder. Then he picks up the lower cardboard box, the upper one balanced and braced against the tip of his chin.

"Comin' through, comin' through, can't see where the fuck I'm going," he whoops, maneuvering out of the bedroom by sheer luck.

"Okay, straight ahead, watch out for the – shit – chair leg," Elijah says, clutching the half-dozen or so books he's collected to his chest and dodging ahead of Orli to the front door.

Elijah throws a last look around the flat, but Orli's already out the door and cursing at the corner of the stair banister, and Elijah can't take the time to search the scattered clothes and discarded cigarette packets and thumbed magazines for a hint of meaning. He pulls the door shut behind him and hurries down the stairs after Orli.

Cut.

"What are my chances of a couple of paragraphs on this Orlando Bloom guy?" Harry asks, idling past Craig's desk with a carton of fried rice and a pair of chopsticks in hand.

"None. Who is he?" Craig asks without looking up.

"Guy who declared for the fight against Karl Urban."

"That's MMA," Craig says pointedly, lofting his eyebrows at Harry.

Harry makes 'so?' face, using the chopsticks for added emphasis.

"I'm your boxing correspondent," Craig says. "Boxing: the ultimate contest of two men's strength, courage, and cunning, the rules of which were laid down by the classical Greeks and ancient Romans. MMA is two guys trying to kick the shit out of each other."

"So just the one paragraph, then?"

"Who's the trainer?"

"Didn't declare."

"Weird. They must have given the manager's name."

"Dominic Monaghan."

"Hnn. I do know the name from somewhere," Craig says, frowning and rubbing the palm of his hand over his hair and scooting in closer to his desk. "So what do we know about Bloom?"

"Nothing nada chip shit. He's a big mystery. He's not a league fighter."

"Sweet. Urban's already beaten anyone worth fighting in the league."

"I thought you didn't approve of this stuff?"

"I don't, but you should see it, it's off the bloody wall," Craig grins. "Who's the promoter?"

"Rhys Davis."

"Alright, I'll go talk to the old pimp, see what he knows. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Harry says dryly, moving on.

Cut.

Beep.

"Viggo! It's PJ. So, I'm gonna be passing by your side of the globe next week. Thought you might like to get together for dinner or something. Let me know."

Click.

Cut.


	39. Ficlet AU "Off the Ropes" (EW/BB)

_**Ficlet AU "Off the Ropes" (EW/BB)** _

Dedication: for all those who labor (haha) in the academic mines.

Elijah's weighed down with an overstuffed bookbag on one shoulder and three ring-clip binders under the opposite arm, but manages to finagle the key into the lock and push open the front door of Billy's house. He bums the door closed behind him, allowing his bag to slide down his arm and his binders to fall at his feet.

"I'm home dear," he says plaintively, leaning back against the door and letting himself slither into a cross-legged heap on the floor.

"Hard day at the office, then?" Billy grins as he comes down the hallway.

Elijah gazes up at him in speechless appeal. Billy hunkers down to Elijah's level and wipes the tufts of spiked hair off Elijah's forehead.

"I'm not gonna be able to stand it," Elijah grimaces. "I swear I flat-lined from boredom at least six times today. English Political and Economic History? Time stopped. It was eleven twenty-three for at least a year. Billy, I can't do this."

"Yes yeh can," Billy says, pushing back up onto his feet.

Elijah lets his head fall back against the door with a dull thud.

"My attention span's down to twelve seconds _max_ ," he goes on. "In lecture, I kept getting up to leave every few minutes, or reaching for my cell phone. All I could think about was having a beer, or flicking through a magazine, or taking a nap. Having a wank. I used to be _good_ at this; what the hell happened?"

Billy nobly resists the urge to say "Dom."

"Yeh're outta practice," he says instead. "Yeh're used to suitin' yerself, jus' hangin' around the place, doin' nothin'. It'll take time to get inta better habits."

"You make it sound easy," Elijah murmurs, his eyelids beginning to slide.

Billy bends and takes hold of him by the wrists and pulls him upright.

"No I don't. I know tryin' to live a right life's hard," he says.

Elijah sags forward in Billy's grip, leaning into Billy's chest and resting his cheek on Billy's shoulder. Billy puts his arms around Elijah and pets the back of Elijah's head. Elijah smiles into the warmth of Billy's neck, and wraps his own arms around Billy's waist.

"You love me," Elijah says quietly.

Cut.


	40. Fic: AU "Off the Ropes" Part 35.

_**Fic: AU "Off the Ropes" Part 35.** _

  


"You're saying you don't know _anything_ about him," Craig says dubiously.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," JRD rumbles. "And you can't prove otherwise. So whatever you dig up about Orlando Bloom, you needn't drag my name into it."

Craig rubs the palm of his hand around on his hair, leaving it sticking up in unruly little tufts.

"And you make a habit of promoting fighters you know nothing about?" he presses.

"You needn't take that tone, Mister Parker. Karl Urban's already beaten anyone worth fighting in the league; I don't make a habit of promoting fighters everyone knows will lose."

"So you went with some unknown this guy Monaghan brought to you. You must have a lot of faith in his judgment when it comes to a fighter."

"Ah. Well. Dominic knows a little about the fight game, yes. But he knows a lot about winners, and his fighter's the only man I've seen this year who has a real chance against Urban."

"How are ticket sales? People interested in seeing Urban go up against some amateur?"

JRD shrugs elaborately.

"It's early days yet. I've no doubt we'll have a decent turnout on the night."

"So no, then."

JRD maintains a stony silence.

"I don't get it," Craig admits. "Why not let Urban go unchallenged if there's no one in the league fit to fight him?"

"Because Urban's losing interest in MMA," JRD says forcefully. "He knows he can't be beaten in the league. After this fight, he's planning to retire from MMA and switch to professional boxing."

Craig stares.

"He's gonna – he's gonna fight World Federation?"

"Why not? That's where the money is, the fame, the challenge. MMA can't begin to offer him what professional boxing can."

"And you want him to go out with a bang."

"On the contrary, I don't want him to go out at all. I love this sport Mister Parker. I want it to prosper. Karl Urban is a star MMA can't afford to lose. I want him to know he _hasn't_ done it all."

"Bloom's all that?" Craig asks.

"He might be."

"And you really don't know anything about him except that his manager's name is Dominic Monaghan."

"That's all I care to know."

Cut.

Since he's in the neighborhood, Craig buys a bunch of orange roses from a street stall and walks the couple of blocks to Liv's apartment building, intending to leave the flowers stuck in the slot of her mailbox. But when he gets there Liv's coming out of the front entrance with Elijah in tow.

"You just missed lunch," Liv beams as Craig hands her the roses and ducks a quick kiss under her hair at the side of her neck.

"Hey Elijah," Craig says. There's something odd about Elijah, and it takes Craig a minute to work out that it's the heavily loaded book bag slung over his shoulder.

"Hi," Elijah says and then turns his attention back to Liv. "I gotta bolt, I'll be late for class."

"Okay baby bee," Liv smiles, hugging him with the arm that's not around Craig's waist. "Call me. And tell Billy I said 'hi'!"

Elijah's already springing down the steps to the sidewalk, but he twists and waves in acknowledgement.

"Billy?" Craig says, gathering Liv in against his shoulder for a minute.

"I never got a chance to tell you – Elijah's dating Billy Boyd."

Craig feels the gears in his head shift.

"Dominic Monaghan," he says out loud.

"Fuck him," Liv says crisply. "I know this thing with Billy is really reboundey, and Billy's like twelve years older than Elijah, but … I refuse to worry about anything that keeps Elijah away from Dom."

"Crap – of course – Dom knows Sean Astin, right?"

"What?" Liv asks, looking up at Craig in confusion. "Of course. Dom dated Billy, Billy and Sean are friends – were until Dom started with his shit, at least."

"I gotta go," Craig says in a rush. "I love you."

"Thanks for my flowers," Liv calls after him, cuddling the mass of vivid petals against her cheek.

Cut.

It takes Craig two minutes with a phone directory to find the address for Astin's gym, and another half an hour in late lunchtime traffic to get there. Craig guesses that it's about three years since he last saw Astin, and even that was just a cursory exchange of pleasantries during a party at which Billy Boyd's boyfriend - _Dom Monaghan_ \- had been drunk and obnoxious enough that Craig took Liv home early.

Craig gets out of the car and waits for a break in the traffic so he can cross the street to the gym. He can see the 'closed until five' sign hanging on the inside of the plate-glass door, but even as he watches the door opens and a young man emerges, swinging a sports bag up onto his shoulder.

Craig glances left and right and then dodges between what traffic there still is. The young man starts off down the street, his bag hanging from its strap while he rubs at the palm of one hand with the fingers of the other.

"Orlando," Craig calls, and even in his own mind it's a statement.

Orli pivots in mid-stride, head tipped to one side in query. His mouth's already slightly open and curling, ready to smile, but his right shoulder goes back a little and his weight settles down defensively. Craig notices himself noticing that: a fight stance being subtly enacted right here on the street.

"You don't know me," Craig says, taking another couple of steps to close the space between them to a comfortable conversational range. "I'm Craig Parker, I write for the Herald - "

"I recognize your name," Orli says, his mouth losing its incipient smile and narrowing instead. "You're a sports reporter."

"Yeah," Craig says, his tone sliding a little into regret because he's a nice guy and he can tell by the way Orli's shoulder twitches back just a little further that Orli knows Craig's presence isn't any kind of good news for Orli.

"Well, fuck you," Orli says matter-of-factly and turns on his heel again.

"Don't you want to tell your side of it?" Craig asks.

"My side of what?" Orli demands, turning again, and part of Craig's brain is busy registering how Orli's never off-balance or out of alignment for a second.

"Whatever it is you don't want anyone to know until after you fight Urban. You do know it's bound to come out then, right?"

Orli considers this for a second, then retraces his last couple of steps, coming closer to Craig. Craig, keenly aware that Orli can probably break him in two without dropping his duffle bag, fights the urge to back up.

"You don't know anything," Orli says.

"I know there's something to know. Look, I'm not interested in getting you into trouble; I'm just interested in the story. I got lucky finding you this fast, but believe me, there'll be more like me before long. Whatever it is, it's gonna come out sooner rather than later."

Orli thinks that over, hitches his eyebrow at Craig, but doesn't answer.

"Look, I understand if you don't want to talk to me without your manager - "

"No," Orli says with great venom.

"We could … go back into the gym," Craig suggests hopefully, sensing that Orli's reaching some kind of decision.

"No," Orli says again, glancing back in that direction. "But, yeah, let's get this off the street at least."

Cut.

Orli listens to the rasp of his own breath as he thumbs coins into the phone slot and dials the number at Astin's gym. The ring tone cycles once, twice.

Orli slaps his fingers down onto the phone, breaking the connection. He dials a different number.

Three, four, five.

"Yeah, it's Karl," Karl says at the other end of the line.

"I'm in trouble."

"Where are you?" Karl asks, and Orli hears the rattle of Karl's keys being scooped out of the bowl next to the phone and the hollow thud of Karl's boot heels on the bare wooden floor.

"I'm in the Square Ring. There's a guy from the Herald asking about my fight history."

Silence: Karl's come to rest somewhere.

"Did you call Astin?"

"No, I called you. This guy's gonna find out one way or another, man," Orli goes on. "My juvenile record's sealed but I've half a dozen GBH and disorderly assembly charges anyway. And if he talks to Astin - "

"Astin will lie for you," Karl cuts in.

"Yeah," Orli says bleakly.

Six, seven, eight.

"If the Association has reason to think you've been involved in illegal fights they'll bar you from fighting until after an inquiry."

"So I lose my shot at the title and Astin will get busted for trying to cover it up."

" _Fuck_. Let me think for a minute."

"I take the guy out the back, break his neck, shove him in a sack and we sling him in the river."

"Jesus, be serious for once."

"Sorry," Orli says in a small voice.

Nine, ten.

"Obi? Will you trust me?"

Orli blinks.

"What do I do?"

"Tell him the truth. Tell him all of it, just the way you told me."

"That's admitting I'm fucking guilty!"

"Yes."

"I'm gonna fight you one way or the other, Karl," Orli says harshly. "I'm gonna kick your fucking arse."

"There'll be a fight," Karl counters. "I just want to make sure there's an audience when I throw your skinny butt out of the ring."

"Ah fuck it. Alright, I'll do it," Orli says before he hangs up.

"The first time I ever drew blood I was nine," Orli says as he folds down into the seat opposite Craig. "His name was Gary MacDonald, he was thirteen, and I popped him in the snot with a maths book."

Cut.

"Dom? It's Orli. If you're there pick up. Pick up. Pick up fucker it's too early in the day for you to have gone out … fine. Look, something's happened and … just, don't do anything radical, okay? Whatever you hear or see. Everything's gonna be fine.

Shit. I'm gonna do a round of the bars, see if I can find you. If not … I guess I'll keep calling."

Cut.


	41. Fic: AU "Off the Ropes" Part 36.

_**Fic: AU "Off the Ropes" Part 36.** _

  


"Hey. That bloody hurts," Dom says, trying to push off enough to open a little space between the rough brick wall and his right cheekbone.

"Shut the fuck up or I'll really do something you won't like," the guy gripping him snarls.

"I've changed my fucking mind. Get off me!"

"Tough shit."

Dom squirms as one rough hand yanks open the waist of his trousers and tugs his shirt tails out of the way, while the other bears hard against the back of his neck and keeps him pinned in position.

"Motherfucker," Dom says as his trousers are pulled down off his hips.

Dom's suitor grabs him by a fistful of hair and smacks his head against the wall. Dom heaves, the thick red pain exploding in his forehead and turning his stomach over.

"No," he manages, but his limbs can't respond to his frantic instructions to resist as his feet are kicked further apart.

"Let him go," Cate says from off to Dom's left.

"What the – who the fuck are you?" the guy manhandling Dom asks.

His grip on Dom eases just enough for Dom to cheat his face to the side slightly. Cate's holding her purse two-handed in front of her, as if she's posing for a wedding photo.

"Monaghan. Can you walk?" Cate asks.

"I'll fucking walk away from this," Dom says, shoving back hard enough to make his attacker stagger slightly. The guy twists up a handful of Dom's hair again and pulls back hard enough to make Dom cry out in pain.

"Let him go," Cate says again, and Dom hears the click of her heels on the cement underfoot as she comes closer.

"Cate … " Dom manages around the burn in his stretched throat.

"Let him go or I'll blow your fucking head off," Cate says.

Dom staggers at the suddenness with which he's released. Cate's holding her purse down by her left side now, and extending a seriously scary chunk of automatic handgun with her right.

"Jesus Christ," Dom's attacker says again, echoing Dom's sentiments exactly. "He asked for it – he fucking asked for it rough."

Cate doesn't answer. The guy backs off a few paces, never taking his eyes off her, then turns and runs. Dom fumbles his trousers back up and fastened. Cate shoves the gun back in her purse and grabs Dom by the arm hard enough to make him hiss.

"Get in the fucking car, you," she snaps.

"Oh crap."

When Dom's finally slouched in the passenger seat, tenderly palpitating the lump on his forehead, he glances sidelong at Cate.

"Thanks. I let things get a bit outta hand back there," he says with a grimace.

Cate gives him a look that makes Dom wonder if he wasn't better off in the alleyway with Don Juan.

"After you fuck this up, Monaghan, I'm going to castrate you and feed you your own balls," Cate says. She wrenches the key over in the ignition. "Ian wants you."

Cut.

"What the fuck _is_ this?" Dom asks, narrowing his eyes against the trip hammer headache he's developed.

"Twenty thousand quid," Ian says reasonably. "Do you want it?"

Dom continues to stare at the open attaché case and its contents for another minute, then he shifts his attention to Ian.

"You're giving me twenty thousand pounds? Is this a joke?"

Ian quirks one corner of his mouth. Dom wishes his head would stop hurting, so he could pay closer attention to the way his heartbeat is sliding around in his chest at the sight of Ian's corded forearms, exposed by his rolled-up shirt sleeves.

"It's not my money," Ian shrugs. "It belongs to William Boyd."

"Billy? What the fuck are you doing with twenty grand of Billy's money? Where the fuck did Billy get _twenty grand_ from, for that matter?"

"I assume it's begged, stolen, borrowed," Ian says. "Well … borrowed, at any rate."

Dom wipes his fingers across his eyes. Every inch of his body feels bruised and abused; he can almost feel the red-black bruises darkening on the flesh over his hipbones. His glance goes unerringly to Ian's hands, and he can't help wondering how easily Ian's flawlessly manicured fingertips would fit into those marks.

"And he gave it to you. And you're giving it to me," Dom says. "I'm fucking confused."

"Apparently he thinks you have problems twenty grand could solve."

"He tried to pay you off, on my account," Dom says, understanding finally dawning.

"My business is with you, Dominic, not with William," Ian smiles coldly. "But he means this to be of benefit to you. Do you want it?"

"What? Of course I fucking want it, it's twenty thousand quid."

"A nest egg. A little insurance against a rainy day … in case you're not the judge of a fighter you think you are, eh?"

Dom draws back, looking from the ranked bundles of bank notes to Ian's pale eyes.

"Is that what you think?" Dom asks slowly. "You think I'm losing my nerve? You think I want this money in case Orli loses? Orli's not gonna lose; Orli's gonna kick Urban's fucking arse. I _know_."

"I'm not the one who wants you to have the money," Ian reminds him.

"No. But you think I'll take it. I don't expect anything better of Billy, but _you_ know what it's really about."

Ian almost quenches the warmth playing around his eyes and lips.

"I don't need anything from you or from Billy fucking Boyd. You'll get your money at the end of the week," Dom says.

"So I'll just have Cate return this, shall I?" Ian asks, one eyebrow arching.

Dom glances at the case, his gray eyes flat with hunger.

"I'll bet you," he says carefully, "I'll bet you twenty thousand pounds that Urban can't beat Orli."

"You don't have twenty thousand pounds."

Dom reaches out, puts his fingers on the edge of the case.

"I do now."

Ian's lips part, and curl into a pleasured smile.

"What odds do you think you're going to get from me on a stake that size?" he asks.

"I don't know. I don't care. Double or nothing. Or don't give me odds at all. Urban wins, you keep the money. He doesn't, you give it back. It's all the same to me because he's not going to win, Orli is. I'll have over a hundred grand by Monday; twenty more or less won't bother me."

Ian inhales deeply, lets it go in a long slow sigh.

"Double or nothing, Urban can't beat your man."

"Done."

Ian turns the case and closes it up.

"I'll see you after fight day," he says, without looking at Dom again. "We'll settle up then."

Dom searches for something to say, but draws a blank. He throws one last regretful glance at Billy's attaché case, turns round, and stalks out.

Ian waits until the door has swung closed and the latch has clicked back into position before looking up.

"Bravo," he murmurs. "Now, if you'd done that without the benefit of the Tooth Fairy's hundred and eleven grand … but bravo, nonetheless."

Cut.

"Where's the case?" Cate demands as Dom strides by her perch at the bar.

"I bet it on a fight," Dom says without breaking stride.

Cate bangs her glass down on the bar and slithers off her seat, half-running a couple of strides to catch up with him.

"That's Billy's money," she says sharply.

Dom turns on her.

"No it's not; Billy doesn't have that kind of money. He borrowed it, I'll bet. Trying to buy my fucking freedom from your boss."

"Why didn't you take it?" Cate demands.

"Because I'm not fucking scared of him, like Billy is. Because I'm not taking the stake off the table while the wheel's still spinning. Billy was too much of a coward for Ian; I'm not like that. I'm not fucking scared."

He glares at her, but she doesn't answer, and after a few seconds he turns around and walks away.

Cate lets him get all the way out of the casino before she goes after him. She hurries down the stairs to the street entrance, the on-duty bouncer hastily opening up the door for her. She steps out into the clammy night and looks up and down the street. Dom is walking purposefully away, shoulders hunched and head down. Cate looks in the other direction, spots Hugo's car and walks towards it. He rolls the window down, leaning his head out and giving her the sharp edge of a smile.

Cate halts about six feet away from the car. She folds her arms across her chest as if she's cold, though the night is steamily warm.

"What's wrong?" Hugo asks, when she does no more than stare at him. "What is it?"

Cate doesn't answer, but her features gradually twist into an expression of greater and greater dismay.

"Cate? Cate," Hugo says sharply, finally pulling up the lock on the door and unfolding from the car. Cate backs up, one step, two.

"I'm not afraid of you," she says suddenly, and her voice is rough-edged and unsteady. "I'm not fucking afraid of you."

Hugo lifts his hands, palms-up, in an odd gesture of surrender and supplication, but Cate turns on her heel and runs back to the open door of the club.

"Cate!" Hugo calls, taking a few steps after her, but she's gone, and the black door of the Casino Club slams shut behind her.

Cut.

Orli listens to Dom's voicemail tell him that Dom's not home, and he can leave a message after the tone. Orli cuts the connection before he hears the beep. He sets the phone aside in the folds of bed-sheets and leans back among the pillows. The bedroom door opens with a small creak.

"Nothing?" Karl asks as he comes in, shrugging his jacket off and throwing it over the chair in the corner.

"No. Fuck," Orli grimaces.

He looks towards the window, at the strip of graying sky visible between the half-closed curtains. He glances at the clock on the bedside table. It's almost six.

"It's tomorrow," he says.

Karl sits down on the edge of the bed, unfolding the newspaper he's carrying. He flips it over and opens up the last page. Orli looks at Karl, then looks down at the paper.

"He didn't waste any time, did he?" he asks quietly.

"Hell of a story," Karl says gently. "And, hey, you got MMA a full column story in the Herald."

He reaches out, looping one arm around Orli's bare shoulders. Orli leans in, tucking his face into curve where the skin of Karl's neck disappears into the collar of his shirt.

"It's okay," Karl murmurs. "It's gonna be okay Obi."


	42. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 37

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 37** _

With huge thanks to [](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=sumbitch)[**sumbitch**](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=sumbitch) for her massive contributions in plot development and editing. MMmwah!!

The gray dawn gives way to a gray morning, and a drizzly rain slicks every surface. The air is mild, though, and once Dom turns the collar of his suit jacket up and stuffs his hands into his pockets he's quite comfortable.

He's sitting on the tumbled stones by the river's edge, under the uncertain shelter of an openwork iron bridge. The water's mud brown, the current swift and swirling. On the far side of the flow, a row of squat and rusted truck containers stand forlorn in an unused goods yard.

At his feet is spread a copy of the Herald, held open at the next to last page with bits of shale at each corner. The rain's speckled the newsprint with wavy gray splotches in places. The smoke from Dom's cigarette is abrupt and white, without a breath of wind to disperse it.

It's not every day, he muses, that a man opens up the newspaper and discovers he's dead.

Cut.

"Dom?"

Elijah stops halfway up the last flight of stairs leading to his dorm room, and stares at Dom sitting on the uppermost step.

"Hey Lij." Dom smiles, though his eyes remain bleak. "Out all night eh? How yeh doin'?"

"I'm fine," Elijah says, coming slowly up the last few steps. "Is something wrong?"

Dom exhales a humorless laugh.

"Come inside," Elijah frowns.

Dom unfolds from his place on the stairs. Elijah unlocks the door and leads the way into his room.

"You want tea?" he asks, spilling his armful of books and his backpack onto the desk and shrugging off his rain-misted corduroy jacket. "I can do tea up here."

"Yeah, tea'd be great," Dom says flatly.

Elijah uncaps the plastic gallon bottle of water sitting on the mini-fridge in the corner and fills the tiny electric kettle next to it. He throws a tea bag into each of two mugs before turning back to Dom.

"So what's this about? Is everything okay?" Elijah asks, watching Dom turning over the covers of the textbooks on the desk.

"Orli's not going to fight Urban," Dom says, without looking up.

"What?"

"His fight license is going to be suspended. Probably only for a couple of weeks, but he won't be able to fight this weekend. They'll have to find someone else … or maybe Urban will just keep the title, unchallenged."

"I don't get it," Elijah says, taking a step towards Dom. "Why? Why won't they let him fight?"

"Before he signed with me, he was a street-fighter. Y'know, bare-knuckle stuff. Knives. Broken bottles. Any shit people would pay to see. That's illegal, Lij. There's a license suspension for anyone the Association suspects, and a fine for anyone found guilty."

"Shit. And they found out about Orli? How?"

"It's in the newspapers."

"Crap. Poor Orli."

"Yeah. Poor Orli."

"But, y'know, if he pays the fine, they'll let him fight after, won't they? I mean, he could fight Urban next year, right?"

Dom's eyes slide closed.

"Yeah, yeah. He can start in the league once he gets his license back, work his way up the rankings, be a legitimate challenger by next year."

"So it's disappointing but not - " Elijah breaks off. "Dom. What else is wrong?"

"Y'know what an ante post bet is, Lij?" Dom asks, and his intonation would be light if it weren't for the thickening of his voice in his throat.

"No," Elijah says evenly. "You know I don't get any of that stuff."

"It's a bet made before the day of the race, or fight, or whatever. With an ante-post bet, if your horse doesn't run or your fighter doesn't fight, for whatever reason … your stake is forfeit. You don't get back the money you put down as a bet."

Elijah inhales steadily.

"Oh. I see. My twenty-five hundred," he says.

He swipes his fingers through his already chaotic hair and shrugs.

"Well, look, whatever. It doesn't matter, Dom. In the big scheme of things it's not - "

"I can't pay McKellen," Dom cuts in. "I'm not gonna have the twenty grand on Sunday."

"The – wait a second. Billy gave that money to McKellen, and McKellen said he'd give it to you. Billy said he would, too. He said McKellen wasn't a thief, whatever else he is."

"And he's not," Dom says sharply. "He gave me the money."

"So where is it?" Elijah snaps, and then, with growing alarm, "Where the fuck is the money, Dom?"

Dom wipes both hands over his face.

"I bet it," he says quietly. "I bet it with Ian that Urban couldn't beat Orli."

Elijah backs up a step, and then another, and then the bookcase at his back stops him.

"You bet twenty thousand pounds, of money Billy had to borrow, on a fight that's not going to happen," Elijah says slowly.

Dom nods.

"Ante post?"

Dom nods again.

The kettle starts to whistle. Elijah walks over and turns it off, stares at it for a second, then fills both mugs.

"Christ, Dom," he sighs, turning around again. "What do you want from me?"

Dom pushes away from the desk and takes the two full-sized steps it takes to cross the tiny room and stand before Elijah.

"God, baby, I don't know, I just - "

He reaches out, fingers grazing across the front of Elijah's tee shirt. Elijah's eyes flash wide and he jerks his chin up.

"Dom."

"Come back, baby," Dom murmurs, his hand curving around the tip of Elijah's shoulder, his thumb working in the thin cotton of Elijah's shirt. "It's no good without you. You're my luck."

Elijah's brows fold up together and his mouth opens. He exhales, his breath hot against Dom's jaw.

"Yeah, see, we belong together," Dom goes on, shifting in even closer, taking hold of Elijah's other shoulder too.

He ducks in, mouth open, and there's a glancing second of contact between his lips and Elijah's before Elijah twists away, out from under Dom's arm, and backs up as far as the room will allow.

"Belong together?" Elijah says, outraged. "Dom, I'm with Billy now. I love Billy."

Dom smirks in genuine amusement.

"Billy? Come on, Lij. You don't want that. I know you; you want a bit of excitement, a bit of danger."

Dom catches his lower lip in his teeth, grinning, and comes swaggering towards Elijah.

"You want to see the wild side, don't you?"

"I've seen it, thanks," Elijah says flatly, dodging past Dom again. "You need to leave."

"Oh what? And leave you with Billy? God, you might as well go to home your mom. You're never going to see life with him; he'll keep you a kid forever. I thought you wanted out, you wanted to be free, to grow up."

"Go," Elijah says coldly.

"Lij. Elijah. Come on, I'm in the shit here."

"I fucking know that! But I can't help you, Dom. I don't have the money, I don't have any way of getting it, and I'm not letting you fuck me just to ease the pain. There's nothing for you here."

Dom backs off, nodding.

"Y'know, I was wrong," he says narrowly. "You an' Billy? You're fucking perfect for each other."

"Dom, just go," Elijah grinds, despite the shine of pain in his eyes.

"Fuck you," Dom says, but he goes to the door, opens it, and goes out, slamming the door behind him.

Elijah waits until the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs has faded.

"Fucker!" Elijah screams, sweeping his cluttered desk clean with both arms, books and CDs and half-empty soda cans cascading onto the floor.

Cut.

"I brought beer," Elijah announces on the doorstep, tilting the twelve-pack he's cradling in his arms.

"So you did," Orlando says, eyebrows raised in faint surprise. "And it's, like, ten in the morning. Come in."

He steps aside, and Elijah wipes his feet on the mat and steps into the house.

"I heard about the fight," Elijah says grimly, parking the beer carton on the side-table while he takes his jacket off. And then, off Orlando's lack of reaction, "That they won't let you fight. Because of … the other stuff you used to do."

"Oh," Orlando says. "Yeah, well."

"Dom told me."

"Dom? You've seen him? Is he okay?"

Elijah shrugs.

"No, but … no worse than usual."

Orlando heaves a huge sigh of relief.

Elijah looks up and around as Karl comes thudding down the stairs.

"Hey. Karl – right?" Elijah grins.

"Hey Elijah."

Karl ducks a kiss onto Orlando's temple.

"I better go. I'll call you the first chance I get, okay?"

"Yeah, thanks," Orlando murmurs, his arm extending out as he only reluctantly releases the fold of Karl's leather jacket he's caught between his fingers.

Elijah looks speculatively at Orlando, but doesn't speak until the door's swung shut behind Karl.

"Same guy, huh?" he teases.

"Yeah, same guy," Orlando smiles. "Hey, bring the beer, we'll call it breakfast."

They go down the narrow hallway into the tiny kitchen and sit at the Formica-topped table.

"So how'd things go with you and Dom?" Orlando asks when he's popped two bottles open and they've saluted each other by clinking the bottle-necks together.

"Badly. He wanted to fuck me."

"Oh. But you and Billy are … just each other, right?"

"Right," Elijah grins in amusement at Orlando's turn of phase.

"Then, ouch on Dom."

"Yeah. He made me so fucking mad. He's just this pit of _want_ , but he won't let you give him anything except sex. And money."

Orlando nods ruefully.

"I was always broke," he says, deadpan.

Elijah laughs.

"Idiot. It makes me love Billy though, how much he wants everything I have to give. He makes me feel … fierce. Like I want to take care of him."

"That's good, that's a good feeling."

"Orli?" Elijah says, suddenly intent.

"Yeah?"

"Teach me to fight."

Orlando tips his head to one side.

"Where did that come from?"

"I don't know. I just … want to know that I can. If I really have to."

Orlando nods.

"Yeah, okay. You've got it in you, we just have to bring it out."

"Really?" Elijah smiles. "Because right now, I'm not feeling it much. Right now I feel like a kid. There's this whole thing with McKellen and Billy; I know Billy's scared, and that's scaring me."

Orlando considers this for a minute, then gets up.

"Here," he says, reaching up and taking down an enameled tin canister from the shelf above the sink. "It's a quick fix, but it's better than nothing. Just don't fucking kill anyone, all right?"

"Tea?" Elijah asks, mystified, accepting it from Orlando.

The unexpected weight dips his wrist momentarily.

"Shit, what's - "

He puts it down on the table and pulls the lid off. The gun lies diagonally across the interior of the canister, with the clip of bullets tucked down one side.

"It's a gun," he says.

"Yeah."

Orlando takes it out, tilts it to one side.

"This is the safety catch, here, see? When it's this way, the gun can't fire."

He pulls the trigger a couple of times, demonstrating how it won't come back all the way.

"Move it this way, it can. Don't worry, you really have to push it to move it, it won't get knocked out of position or anything. You try."

Elijah, both hands shaking crazily, takes the unloaded gun from Orlando. He gets hold of the grip, his fingers awkwardly mimicking the gesture he's seen in a million TV shows and movies, then uses the other hand to force the catch backwards and forwards.

"Okay," he husks.

"The clip goes this way," Orlando goes on, taking the gun back and demonstrating. "Don't worry, it won't fit the wrong way round. You really need to whap it to get it all the way in, see? And you squeeze here, and it comes out. I've only a few rounds left for the clip, so no Lara Croft stuff, okay?"

"Okay," Elijah says in very small voice.

"Don't worry, just showing a gun is enough to stop most people," Orlando says easily. "If it doesn't, fire a round at the wall. Maybe not the wall they're standing in front of, just to be safe."

"Okay."

Orlando snaps the slide back, putting a round in the chamber.

"Okay, you're ready to go. If you want to unload it, drop the clip, and pull this back to get the round that's in the chamber. Okay?"

"Yeah."

"Mess with it. Handle it. Get used to how it feels in your hand. The more you look like you can use it, the less chance you'll have to," Orlando says, turning the gun over and offering it grip-first to Elijah.

Elijah nods intently, accepting the gun back. Orlando takes his beer up again, sipping as he watches Elijah tilt his hand, getting a sense of the gun's balance.

"So … where did you get this?" Elijah asks, experimenting with the reach of his thumb to the safety catch.

"Gran. She used to carry it in her handbag. She was always hoping some guy'd try to mug her, and she could pull a fucking semi-automatic handgun on him. Fucking mad, she was."

Cut.


	43. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 38

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 38** _

  


"I'll have someone's bloody head for this," Bean growls, throwing the newspaper towards the table in a flurry of pages.

He turns away, rubbing hard at the palm of one hand with the fingers of the other, massaging away ghostly bits of tape adhesive. Karl moves behind him, gathering up the scattered newsprint and piling it in semi-order on the table.

"Don't worry," Bean goes on. "You're out of it, even if the Association doesn't move its bloody arse with a suspension before Friday night. I'll tell Rhys Davies he can find a league fighter or the fight's off anyway. That bloody whoremonger, trying to put you into the ring with a gouger like that."

"He's not – it's not – it might not be like that," Karl says, without looking at Bean. "Maybe he's good. Maybe he's someone I'd want to fight."

" _What_? He's not a _fighter_ , Karl. He's some fuckin' thug who thinks he's clever to get paid fifty quid to kick some bloke in the groin."

Karl turns up the corner of the page bearing Craig's article, and folds it into a crisp crease.

"I want to fight him," he says quietly.

"No, no, I know you're wound up for it now and you'd sooner fight anyone than no one, but no. You don't have to do this, you don't have to take this kind of shite from anyone. There's got to be one league fighter not too shite-scared to - "

"To what? Get into a ring with me when he knows he can't win? I don't care; I don't want to fight someone like that. This guy … I don't know if I can beat him. I mean, nobody knows anything about him. How do you know he's not really good?"

"Because if he was, he wouldn't be fighting for spare change on street corners," Bean says narrowly.

"Well he's not anymore! He's trying to get into the league."

"Aye, by challenging you. Let 'im work his way up like everyone else."

"Chances are, I won't be here then," Karl says reasonably. "I'll be out of MMA and boxing Federation rules."

"What's gotten into you?" Bean asks, his mouth curling in amusement. "It's him, isn't it?"

"Who?" Karl asks, his dark eyes sweeping wide in alarm.

"The bloke you're seeing."

Karl opens his mouth but can't think of anything to say.

"I know there's a bloke so don't tell me there isn't," Bean goes on. "I didn't say anything because he seems to be good for you; I've never seen you train so hard for a fight. He one of these fellas that gets off on seeing his boyfriend knock the shite outta someone else?"

Karl manages to get his mouth closed again, and lifts his eyebrows in a way that could be construed as either agreement or disagreement.

"So he's hot to see you fight this eejit Bloom?" Bean prompts.

"He'd … be disappointed if there was no fight, yeah."

"There's more to this," Bean says, eyeing Karl. "You're actin' weird."

Karl forces himself to meet Bean's gaze.

"You haven't done anything stupid have you?" Bean asks mildly. "Fallen in love, anything like that."

Karl tries to shake his head but the motion just won't take, and ends up slithering away in a shrug.

"Oh bloody hell," Bean smirks. "Well, look, it's just as well it's not up to you. The Association'll suspend Bloom's license until there can be an inquiry, so he won't fight anyway."

"There's no reason to have an inquiry," Karl says intently. "He's admitted in print that he fought illegally. He's not trying to deny it. They can set the fine and let him pay it before Friday; he keeps his license and he gets to fight."

Bean considers this for a minute.

"Aye, all right, so they could, if they wanted to. But why should they feel like doin' any favors for some little shite-kicking street punk?"

"Because … you're the biggest star MMA's ever had, and you're going to ask them to?"

Cut.

"Craig," Harry calls, leaning his chair back far enough from his desk to see round the upright of his cubicle. "Stick an update on your story for the afternoon run would you? I just had Lee on the phone. The Chair and Vice-Chairs of the Association are meeting at lunchtime to decide what to do about Bloom's fight license."

Cut.


	44. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 39 (EW/BB NC-17)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 39 (EW/BB NC-17)** _

  


  
"Billy Boyd."

Billy looks up from his work to see Elijah standing on the threshold of the office. Billy's lips part and curl into a smile of complete pleasure.

"Elijah."

Elijah crosses into the room, letting the strap of his book-bag slither off his shoulder and over his hand as he sets the bag down on the floor and steps around it.

"Don't yeh have class now?" Billy asks, pushing his chair back from the desk as Elijah circles round to him.

"Prof's flying a holding pattern over Heathrow," Elijah murmurs, one hand guiding Billy's knees apart so Elijah can stand right in front of him. "Class was cancelled."

"Oh," Billy says, letting Elijah push him back in his chair, Billy's head tipping back as Elijah bends down to him. "Well, if yeh want to spread yer books out here … "

"No thank you," Elijah breathes as his lips touch Billy's.

The kiss begins softly, just a brush of velvet lips and the satin slip of a tongue tip. Elijah lifts one hand to Billy's jaw, finger and thumb sliding along the small bone to the sharp point of Billy's chin. He exerts just enough pressure to lift Billy's face fractionally, stretch Billy's throat, and bring Billy's mouth into surer contact with his own.

Elijah bites down, his teeth dragging at the edges of Billy's small lips, his tongue pushing slowly into the heat and wetness of Billy's mouth. Billy's eyes flicker closed.

Elijah presses in a little harder, tongue tracing the blunt blade edges of Billy's teeth and curling into the arch of Billy's palate. Billy slouches lower in his chair, his legs falling further apart. His hands come up, fluttering light and quick on Elijah's hips and waist and chest before settling around the nape of his neck, pulling him down deeper into the kiss.

Elijah shifts, stepping around each of Billy's thighs, kneeing Billy's legs together again. Elijah sinks down, straddling Billy's lap. Billy's hands slide away from Elijah's neck and reappear at his hips, fingers twisting into the empty belt-loops of Elijah's jeans. Billy jerks Elijah forwards, pulling his groin up onto the hard knot of Billy's erection. Billy grunts into Elijah's mouth. Elijah, feeling his spine turn to molten sugar, rolls his ass in a slow circle against Billy.

"Elijah," Billy gasps against Elijah's mouth.

"You smell so fucking good," Elijah husks, trailing his lips up Billy's cheek so he can rub his nose in the baby-fine strands that mark the recession of Billy's hairline.

Billy doesn't answer, just drags his lips and tongue down the pale skin of Elijah's neck and pulls Elijah's tee-shirt away to expose the hollow between Elijah's collarbones. He licks the pulse beating there.

"Oh … fuck," Elijah breathes against the thin skin of Billy's temple. "Fuck you … I want you so fucking much."

"Wait'll we get home, love, we'll do anythin' you want. Everythin' you want," Billy says into the slicked skin of Elijah's throat.

"Come home now, then," Elijah says harshly, hitching himself on Billy's erection until Billy groans and lets his head drop heavily back.

"I can't … I'm waitin' fer a call. I hafta talk teh a man about a … oh God … about a dog."

Elijah sneezes out a little giggle.

"What kind of dog?" he asks, turning the hitching of his hips into a slow smooth push and press.

"A … oh … a greyhound, I sincerely fuckin' hope," Billy manages, taking hold of Elijah by the hips, though he neither urges or resists Elijah's continued movement.

"Oh, dog-racing," Elijah says, and drives down hard with a killing half turn of his hips that makes Billy arch and gasp and dig his fingers hard into the bones of Elijah's hips.

"Oh yeh beautiful fuckin' … yeh're a fuckin' whore," Billy croons, his upper lip curling away from his small sharp teeth.

Elijah smiles lazily and folds forward, pressing himself chest to chest with Billy.

"I'm your whore," he murmurs, licking carefully up the long furrow between the bow of Billy's top lip and the tip of his nose.

"Aye, and mah heart, and mah young prince," Billy says softly.

"I want you."

"I told yeh, I can't leave yet."

"I didn't ask you to."

Billy laughs, pushing himself up into the tight-sprung arch of denim between Elijah's legs.

"I'm not going teh - "

"Yes you are," Elijah says confidently. "You want to, don't you?"

"Of course I want teh," Billy gasps, digging his fingers into Elijah's hair and holding him a breath away from Billy's mouth. "I always fuckin' want teh. The more of you I get, the more I need."

"Good. I don't want you to get tired of me."

"Never. Yeh have mah whole heart Elijah. Yeh've had it from the first minute I saw yeh. I'll never let yeh go, even if I should."

"Shh," Elijah breathes, his fingers stroking Billy's face.

"It's not over," Billy insists. "Right now McKellen's distracted wi' Dom, but sooner or later he's goin' teh want teh settle wi' me for tryin' teh interfere. Yeh shouldn't be near me when that happens."

"It's not going to happen," Elijah says with utter conviction. "We're going to be all right."

"Are we?" Billy asks, drawing back a fraction to look into Elijah's infinite eyes.

"Yes," Elijah says. "Yes."

He leans in again, and this time their mouths meet and mesh at once, tongues curling and stroking in the secret dark between them. Billy's hands slide up under the back of Elijah's tee-shirt, fingers splayed wide over the shift of Elijah's slender muscles.

"Let me," Elijah pants as he breaks away, slithering out of Billy's lap and onto his knees in front of Billy's chair.

"Oh Christ," Billy says, letting Elijah elbow his thighs apart and crawl back into him.

"I want to suck your cock," Elijah murmurs, his breath a hot flurry through Billy's shirtfront onto Billy's skin. "I want you to come in my mouth; I want to swallow your come."

"Oh fuckin' Christ," Billy says.

Elijah's fingers are quick on the button and zipper of Billy's jeans and the small buttons of Billy's shirt. Elijah parts the shirt and hooks his fingers into the waist of Billy's jeans. Billy lifts helpfully, and they get the jeans pulled down to his ankles. Billy's cock is tenting out the front of his shorts. Elijah leans in, having to crane a little over Billy's tethered feet, and bites softly at the spot of wet cotton stretched over the head of Billy's cock.

Billy hacks out a grunt and jerks. Elijah tongues at the spot, tasting the sharp seawater note through the faintly fuzzy cloth.

"You taste so fucking good," Elijah says, and his breath and the vibration of his voice make Billy stutter a deep inhalation.

Elijah takes hold of the waist of Billy's shorts and Billy lifts himself again; Elijah pulls the garment down and dips his face into Billy's lap, filling his lungs with the first skin-warm rush of Billy's smell.

"You're so fucking sexy," Elijah breathes against pale skin dusted with rusty hair.

Billy reaches out, his hand curving around Elijah's skull, petting the unruly tufts of his dark hair.

"Oh God, Elijah, yeh make me feel … oh God," Billy rasps as Elijah circles his tongue slowly on the inside of Billy's thigh.

"I make you feel … what?" Elijah asks, shifting upwards a little, nuzzling the head of Billy's cock where it lies against his taut belly.

"Oh … _alive_ ," Billy shudders out as Elijah opens his mouth wide and swallows Billy's shaft down as far as he can. "Like it's not too late fer anythin'."

Elijah hums agreement, and Billy gasps at the sensation. Elijah tips and tilts his mouth, up and down and around, his fingers working on the spit-slippery root of Billy's cock.

"Oh … fuck. I won't last Elijah," Billy warns sharply. "I won't fuckin' last like this."

Elijah hums again, and Billy's breathing shatters into fevered panting.

"Fuck – God – Jesus – Elijah – oh – fuck you, fuck you, so fuckin' beautiful."

Elijah smears both hands up the insides of Billy's thighs, prying them even further apart, thumbing over the tightening sac of his balls. Billy's hips rock, small sharp jerks that Elijah rides easily. Billy's fingers tighten and relax in Elijah's hair, quick-fingered strokes alternating with slow-fisted pulls.

"Oh God – are yeh ready? Are yeh ready?" Billy gasps, his whole body tensing, every muscle strung tight and quivering.

Elijah palms up over Billy's stomach and chest, fingers spread wide and pressing hard into the rapid lift and fall of Billy's ribs, into the pounding of Billy's heart.

"Ah – fuck!" Billy bellows, and his come spills across Elijah's tongue.

Elijah swallows and lifts his head, licking his lips with exaggerated relish.

"Come 'ere," Billy pants, grabbing him by the nape of the neck and dragging him up for a plunging plundering kiss.

The taste of come on Elijah's lips makes Billy groan. He shoves Elijah off by the shoulders and bends to catch hold of him by the hips instead.

"Come 'ere, come up."

Elijah manages to get up on one knee, then get his feet under him, and Billy yanks him in closer and starts scrabbling at the buttons of Elijah's jeans.

"All right Boss?" Sala calls from the bottom of the stairs. "I heard - "

"Fuck off Sala," Elijah yells back, as Billy drags denim and cotton down around Elijah's thighs.

"Oh, right, yeah, sorry," Sala returns.

"We should at least close the fuckin' door," Billy laughs, pushing Elijah off a little.

Elijah's already scowling in anticipation of the loss of Billy's hands on his bare skin, but Billy just jerks Elijah in again, so close that Elijah has to brace one knee on the edge of the chair seat next to Billy's thigh to keep his balance.

"Oh."

Billy's tongue traces spirals on the smooth skin of Elijah's belly, while Billy's clever little hands circle Elijah's ass.

"Door?" Elijah asks.

"I said we should, I didn' say we would," Billy says, and Elijah feels the words in his guts.

"Billy please."

"Will yeh beg me, pretty thing? Will yeh tell me what yeh want?" Billy smiles against Elijah's hip.

"Yes Billy fuck yes please please I want it I want to feel your mouth on me please please," Elijah says all in one rushed exhalation, bending down to pet and stroke Billy's face, Billy's curling lips.

Billy laughs, always delighted by how Elijah shatters at the slightest touch, so utterly without pride or defenses.

"Come on so," Billy purrs, his hands on Elijah's ass pulling Elijah in closer.

Billy dips his head, licking at the dribble of shine on the underside of Elijah's cock.

"Fuck – fuck – I'm too close," Elijah snaps, digging his fingers into the triangles of muscle between Billy's neck and shoulders. "Don't play just - "

Billy shoves forward, swallowing Elijah's cock, forcing the length deep into his throat.

Elijah's bitten nails dig jagged crescents into Billy's skin, and Elijah's body arches back against the restraint of Billy's hands.

"Fuck! Fuck!"

Billy rears back, sucking around the head of Elijah's cock before plunging back down.

"Billy? Billy?" Elijah says, and the fear and panic in his voice make Billy hum with deep delight.

"No, no," Elijah pleads and then a deep hoarse "Yes fuck yes," and Billy feels the electric quiver run through Elijah's body and Elijah's already unraveling forwards in relief when Billy feels the cock in his mouth pulse and he's swallowing come sharp and clean as apple juice.

Billy nurses out the dying shudders of Elijah's orgasm, shifting his grip to hold Elijah up and off him until Billy finally lets Elijah's softening cock slip away, leaving his lips and chin wet.

Elijah makes a blurry little noise of gratitude as Billy wipes his own face with his hand.

"Off," Billy says, pushing Elijah away enough for them to get their feet untangled so Elijah can fold down into Billy's lap, his head on Billy's shoulder.

"Nice," Elijah murmurs, his eyes drifting closed as he presses his nose and mouth against the side of Billy's throat.

"Yeh're not goin' asleep there," Billy says firmly. "Sala'll be up to get the night-safe bag at six, and I don't want him seeing the pair of us wi' naked arses an' you asleep in mah arms."

"Mmnnn," Elijah says, curling his fist under his chin and smacking his lips contentedly.

"Get _up_ ," Billy laughs, jiggling his thighs under Elijah's ass.

Elijah sits up, grinning.

"Can't stay anyway," he says, starting to rebutton Billy's shirt all wrong. "I'm meeting Orli at the gym at seven-thirty, and I have to go back to the dorm to get my gear."

"Yer gear?"

"Yeah. Orli's gonna teach me a few things. Martial arts stuff."

Billy's brows gather together anxiously.

"No," Elijah says, kissing the creases until they smooth out somewhat. "Whatever it is you're worrying about, don't. Orli's my friend and we're gonna have some fun messing around in the gym. And nothing bad is gonna happen to you or to me. We're gonna be okay. All this crazy shit is gonna pass us by, and we're gonna be okay."

"All right. If you say it, it must be true," Billy breathes, both hands curving around Elijah's face and bringing him for one more kiss.


	45. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 40 (DM/IM)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 40 (DM/IM)** _

  


Dom spends the day walking the streets. He goes into a dozen pubs and coffee shops and buys things he doesn't drink; the effort of sitting still becomes unbearable after a few minutes and he's back up and out on the wet sidewalks again.

The world has taken on a surreal quality, as if everything is an exquisitely detailed replica of itself. Dom stares into the faces passing him by and envies their bored looks. The greatest wealth he can conceive of is a plodding future stretching out in endless gray in front of him.

Dom goes by the Casino Club, but during daylight hours it's no more than a darkened neon sign and a blank locked door. It doesn't open until after eight, and Ian's rarely in evidence before ten or eleven. Dom walks on, glancing westward every few blocks as if to judge the decline of the sun, as if evening has some solace to offer.

It's only six when Dom hefts a tattered and flapping phone directory in a phone booth that smells of old wood and spilt beer. His finger traces down the column, McKellen, Arthur, Connor … Ian. He rips that half of the page away.

Cut.

Dom parks on the road outside the brick wall and laurel hedge frontage of Ian's home. He's not sure what he expected, but it wasn't this pale stone Georgian villa with its four-pillared and three-stepped portico. The gravel drive curves around manicured grass. Parked side-by-side in front of the house are Ian's black Mercedes and a forest-green Range Rover.

Dom goes up the front steps, suddenly keenly aware that he's been in these clothes for forty-eight hours straight, and that he's damp and cold and light-headed from hunger. He leans on the polished brass button of the door-bell and hears it chime somewhere deep within the house.

There's a pause, and the door is opened by a middle-aged woman of stout build. She has the liquid features of an Indian, but the crisply curling hair of an African. She's wearing a dark blue shirt-waist dress with a white half-apron over it, and soft house shoes.

"Yes?" she says, looking Dom up and down with undisguised suspicion.

"Boss in, is he?" Dom asks, trying for levity and getting desperation.

"Mister McKellen doesn't see casual callers. Call him up on the telephone and arrange to see him properly."

"He'll see me," Dom counters, craning over her shoulder to peer down the airy hallway beyond.

"Ian," he calls out experimentally.

"Go away! If you don't go away directly, I'll call the police."

Dom backs up a step, but before she has a chance to shut the door on him, he yells out.

"Ian! It's Dominic Monaghan!"

"Thank you, Regina," Ian says quietly as he comes down the stairs. "I'll take care of this."

Regina looks doubtfully at Ian, but he flashes her a smile of reassurance. She throws Dom one more look of distrust and retires to the back of the house.

"Well, come in," Ian says flatly.

Dom's a little taken aback by the success of his stratagem. He steps over the threshold and looks around him while Ian closes the door.

"You look like shit," Ian says, leading the way into a large, formal-looking reception room. "Are you drunk?"

"No," Dom answers, glancing around and deciding not to inflict his damp and crumpled person on any of the pale satin-upholstered seating.

"In that case you may have a drink if you want one," Ian says, unstoppering a heavy crystal decanter and pouring an inch of whiskey into a matching tumbler.

He holds the decanter poised over a second glass, waiting for Dom's decision.

"No, thank you," Dom says.

Ian arches an eyebrow but sets the decanter down without comment. He takes up his own glass and moves towards Dom.

"You know the fight's off," Dom says.

"I read the newspaper, yes," Ian answers, moving past Dom and sitting down on a delicate armchair in front of the empty fireplace.

Dom waits, but Ian just sips his drink.

"That's it?" Dom prods. "That's all?"

"What exactly do you expect of me, Dominic? You played the odds, pitching an illegal fighter against a league titleholder. You lost."

Dom shrugs, staring at Ian in rapt disbelief.

"All right," Ian sighs elaborately. "Dominic: the fight's off, so the twenty-five hundred pounds you had me lay off with various book-makers and the twenty thousand you bet with me are forfeit as ante post stakes. You still owe me twenty grand and I want it by midday on Sunday."

Dom turns his face aside, squeezing his eyes shut, than snapping them open again to glare at Ian.

"You know I've no way to get that money now. None."

Ian's mouth tightens sourly.

"Is that what you're here for Dominic? To plead poverty? To turn out your empty pockets for me? You played a bold stroke betting against Urban with me. Don't turn petty now."

Dom's breathing hard, his heart pounding unevenly in his chest, his body shivering and suddenly sore. He lifts his hand to his mouth, smearing his fingers across lips that throb with the remembered chill of Ian's kiss.

"Petty?" Dom cries, his voice cracking. "It's my fucking life we're talking about!"

Ian bangs his drink down on the spindly table next to his chair and stands abruptly.

"Then I expect you'll figure something out," he snaps. "Scrape around and find _something_ to pay off your debt with."

Dom backs up, shakes his head.

"No. Not like this. Not like some kind of fucking whore, trying to save my life."

Ian's eyes widen, then narrow down again.

"Is that what you think I'm angling for?"

He laughs, and the sound goes through Dom like so many splinters of freshly smashed glass.

"I've never had a tart in my life, Dominic, and I'm not about to start now. Besides, you're a delightful boy, but you're not a twenty grand fuck. There aren't enough hours left between now and noon on Sunday to extract that kind of value from a man's body."

Dom shakes his head as if trying to clear something from his hearing.

"It's three and a half days away," he says. "I still have three and a half days left."

"Maybe you could play the lottery," Ian sneers. "What's the jackpot? Hundred and eleven grand?"

Dom frowns, confused, and Ian suddenly thrusts away from him and throws himself back down in his chair.

"Go home, Dominic, I'm done with you."

Dom wipes one hand across his face, trying to clear the pain in his head and the fear in his chest and the ache in his heart.

"I don't fucking care," he says, and this time his voice breaks and his eyes overspill. "I don't fucking care if you're done with me, I'm not done with you."

He stumbles forward, and Ian tenses in his seat but doesn't rise. Dom drops to his knees and Ian draws back, disgusted, but Dom winds his hands around Ian's neck and pulls his face down and Dom's mouth is scorching hot and tear-salty on Ian's soft cool lips.

For a second Dom's just pushing and mewling and his mouth's sliding fruitlessly against Ian's, then Ian's hands come down steady and firm on Dom's heaving ribcage, holding Dom still, holding his breath in his lungs. Ian pulls back just enough to break the connection between their mouths, and then leans in again. He presses his lips against Dom's, and when Dom opens to him, Ian slides his tongue in and circles the tender flesh behind Dom's upper teeth.

Dom clutches at Ian's shirt, at the sleek hard lines of muscle under the crisp cotton. His eyes are spilling hot tears that run raw tracks down his cheeks and drip off his chin.

"Ian," he tries to say when Ian finally pulls away, but his voice is gone and all that comes out is a flurry of heated air.

"You're burning," Ian murmurs, one big soft-palmed hand covering the left side of Dom's face.

"No, cold," Dom croaks.

"Damn it, Dominic, you're sick."

Dominic grins, or tries to, but the muscles of his face are stiff with pain.

"You can't stay here," Ian says, as if it's at least a debatable possibility. "You have to go. Can you drive?"

"I'll fucking drive away from you," Dom smiles, because he's starting to hurt so badly that the prospect of death at the hands of Ian's thugs is no longer an unmitigated evil.

"Oh Christ, come on," Ian says wearily, taking hold of Dom under the arms and hauling him upright as Ian himself rises. "I'll take you home."

"Regina," Ian calls from the hallway. "I'm going out for a little while."

Regina comes hurrying from the back of the house, and makes a sort of abbreviated throwing-her-hands-up-in-despair gesture when she sees Ian half supporting Dom with an arm around his waist.

"He's sick," Ian shrugs apologetically.

"No I'm not," Dom croaks, before a coughing fit overcomes his ability to speak.

Ian bundles Dom into the passenger side of the Range Rover and shuts the door on him, then goes round to the other side himself.

"You make a fool of me," Ian says, fastening his seat belt and clicking the rear-view mirror into the right position. "In the very fullest sense of the phrase. But that twenty grand's a debt you freely and knowingly incurred, Dominic. I'm not going to pretend it didn't happen. I want my money – the money I'm _owed_ \- by noon on Sunday. No excuses, no extensions, no exchanges. It has to be that way. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," Dom rasps, though he can barely shape the word around the jagged fire burning in his mouth, and he can't begin to form a thought to go with it.

"All right. Just don't try to fuck me around more than I'm already inviting you to," Ian rumbles.

Dom hiccups, and closes his eyes, and tries not wince at the pain that cuts through his head when Ian starts the engine.

Cut.


	46. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 41

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 41** _

  


"Orli? It's Elijah. Look, something's come up and I can't make it to the gym right now. No, no, I'm fine, everything's fine, it's just … I'll call you, okay? Yeah, you too man."

Elijah thumbs his cell-phone off and flips it closed. He tosses it onto his dorm room bed, next to his sports bag with its track-pants and tee-shirts guts hanging out. In the midst of the mess sits the open attaché case, filled to the brim with neatly bundled money.

Elijah scrubs at his face with one hand, pacing three steps left and then three steps right along the side of the bed, never taking his eyes off the case.

"Okay," he huffs aloud, lifting and squaring his shoulders. "Oh fuckin' kay."

He pulls a dark blue rain jacket off its hanger in the closet and slips it on. The garment's loose and long on him. He hauls his book-bag onto the bed and digs out Orli's gun and the clip for it. He slips the clip into place, smacks it home with the palm of his hand, pulls back the slide and lets it spring forward again to put a round in the chamber. He checks the safety catch carefully, then slips the gun into the right hand pocket of his jacket. He zips the attaché case closed, takes it up, scoops his keys from the desk in passing, and leaves.

Cut.

Billy opens the door and his smile comes quick and bright when he sees Elijah.

"I thought yeh were - "

But the smile's already sliding away into concern as he registers Elijah's expression. Elijah shoulders past him into the house; Billy looks down and recognizes the attaché case in Elijah's hand.

"Where'd yeh get tha' fuckin' thing from?" Billy demands sharply.

"It was in my gym bag. Dom must have stashed it there after I left, and then Orli just grabbed it when we were getting the rest of my stuff. I guess that explains why Dom came to see me … why he was so eager to get me into bed … fucker knows I always wanna sleep afterwards. I suppose he figured he'd get it back then and leave before I woke up."

They've made their way through to the kitchen. Billy rather illogically clears everything else off the table and Elijah sets the case down. He unzips his jacket, takes it off, and hangs it on the back of one of the chairs.

"But he told yeh he'd staked it wi' Ian, and lost it because the fight's off," Billy says in confusion. "Why lie abou' that?"

"I don't know," Elijah shrugs, sitting down and drawing the case towards him. "So you wouldn't expect him to pay you back?"

Billy smirks joylessly.

"I didn'ah expect him teh pay meh back anyway."

"Yeah, I get that. Point is, you've got it now. It's up to you whether you offer it to Dom again or just return it the people you borrowed it from."

Elijah's fingers are on the zip pull of the case when Billy reaches out, covering Elijah's hand with his own.

"And you'd be a'right wi' that?" Billy asks quietly.

Elijah's expression waivers, then settles again.

"You were right," he says. "It's not going to save him, it's just letting him dig himself in even deeper next time. He has to run. He has to just get away from this."

Billy nods and draws his hand back. They hold each other's gaze for another long beat, then Elijah looks down and peels back the zipper of the case and flips the lid open, revealing the contents.

"Oh … bugger," Billy says with great conviction.

"Yeah, pretty, isn't it?" Elijah grins, fingering the corner of one stack.

"Elijah … this isn'ah twenty grand."

Elijah scowls accusingly at the money.

"Shit. You mean he spent some of it already?"

"No, no, I mean … eyeballin' this, I'd say there was at least a hundred grand here."

" _Whoa_."

Cut.

"Oh Jesus _fuckin'_ Christ," Billy gasps.

"What?"

"We hafta get rid of this," Billy says, throwing the lid of the case closed and yanking the zip shut again.

"What? Why? No!"

"Who the fuck do yeh think Dom knows that's got this kinda money? This is _Ian's_."

"Wha- how the fuck did Dom get a hundred thousand pounds of Ian's money?"

"Well it wasn't a bloody gift, tha's fer sure."

"You think he stole it?"

"I don't know how, but aye."

"Shit."

"Get up Elijah," Billy snaps, grabbing his own jacket from the hook on the back of the door. "We hafta to give this back, we hafta get Dom the fuck out of town, and we hafta make bloody sure Dom hasn't told anyone else that the money ended up wi' you."

"Give it back?" Elijah protests, standing. "Not all of it, though. You're owed twenty thousand pounds!"

Billy grabs Elijah by the shoulders, hard.

"Elijah. Yeh d'nah fuck wi' Ian, or Ian's money. Do yeh understand? Dom is in such deep shite yeh can't begin teh believe it, an' all I care abou' is makin' sure none of it gets on you."

"But I didn't even - "

"Yeh had the money. Yeh're Dom's ex-boyfriend, an' Ian is never goin' teh believe yeh didn't agree teh hide the money fer Dom."

Elijah subsides, nodding in reluctant acknowledgement.

"So … what are we gonna do?" he asks quietly.

For a long beat Billy's silent, his eyes flickering around the kitchen as if in search of inspiration.

"I'm goin' teh get you somewhere safe," he says at last. "An' then I'm goin' teh call Cate an' tell her I have the money. An' then I'm goin' teh find Dom an' put him on a boat or train or plane or some fuckin' thing an' get him the fuck out o' here before Ian has him fuckin' killed."

Elijah reaches into the pocket of his jacket where it lies on the chair.

"Take this," he says, holding out Orli's gun.

"Jesus wept! Where did yeh get that? Is that thing _loaded_?"

"Orli gave it to me."

"Sufferin' Christ. Remind me later to have yeh introduce me teh him so I can kick his fuckin' arse fer him. _Shite_. Yeh can't leave it here, in case we end up wi' the police involved. If they find a gun in my house my arse is fuckin' toast. Yeh'll have teh keep it, but fer fuck's sake don' do anythin' wi' it."

"Okay," Elijah says in a small voice, repocketing the gun and pulling his jacket on.

Cut.

Elijah folds his arms, his fingertips disappearing under the ends of his sleeves.

"I guess there's no point in saying I want to go with you," he says grimly, chin dipped into his chest and looking up at Billy from under tensed brows.

"I need teh know yeh're out'ah harm's road," Billy says, reaching out to curl his fingers around Elijah's ear as if tucking back a lock of hair, though what's growing there is short and spiked.

Elijah's lips tighten and his eyes grow wide and bright.

"Shh," Billy whispers, leaning in close. "Nothin's goin' teh happen to me. I plan to grow old and entirely bald wi' yeh, mah lovely boy."

Elijah turns his head jerkily, and his mouth softens against Billy's. Billy's fingers entwine in the back of Elijah's hair, and Elijah's hands slip on the tan leather of Billy's jacket. Their lips move gently against each other, a slow soft press and yield, then part with a tiny liquid whisper.

"You love me," Elijah breathes as Billy begins to draw back.

"Yeh know it," Billy murmurs.

He pulls away, his gaze going straight to Miranda, who's standing in the doorway of her kitchen watching them. Her arms are folded tensely across her waist and her head is slightly bowed, as if she's unconsciously mimicking Elijah's posture.

"I owe yeh, Mir," Billy says, tucking his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders. "It won't be fer long. I've called Bernard an' he says he'll get a hold'ah Hugo an' have him come round right quick an' take Elijah somewhere else."

Miranda shrugs, an awkward twitchy motion that slips a lock of her coppery hair onto her face.

"Don't worry about," she says, with a smile that doesn't quite come out right.

When Billy's pulled the door shut after him, Elijah's left standing alone in the hallway.

"I'd offer to make tea, if I thought you'd drink it," Miranda says.

Elijah turns to look at her.

"Come on," Miranda says, tipping her head to indicate the dining room. "I've a bottle of Bernard's whiskey I've been saving for an occasion."

They sit across from each other at the table, pulling cigarettes out of the same packet and sharing the same plastic lighter and heavy ceramic ashtray. They take turns at the whiskey bottle, pouring into the small plain juice glasses Miranda brings from the kitchen.

"You think he'll be okay?" Elijah asks, and it might be the deep inhalation of smoke that's roughening his voice.

"Billy's a tough little bastard," Miranda says evenly.

For a while there's just the pull and push of their smoke-laden breath and the rap of their glasses on the tabletop.

"He's mad about you," Miranda says finally, grinding out her cigarette butt and reaching for the packet again. "You can tell; something around the eyes. He never looked at me like that."

Elijah ducks his head, trying to hide the blush heating his cheeks.

"What … what do you think Ian's going to do?" he asks, turning his glass in his fingers. "When he finds out Dom took his money, I mean."

"Huh. Well, I'm sure Billy thinks he's going to fucking flay Dom alive and wear his skin for a suit."

"But you don't?"

Miranda shrugs, swilling the last sip of whiskey around in her glass before knocking it back.

"Billy used to go on about what a fucking bastard McKellen was, but McKellen was the one trying to get Billy back. He tried to give Billy money to get started in his own business, tried to get him to go back to work at the club … Jesus, he used to send a guy round with groceries to Billy's flat every week. Billy kicked him down the stairs one time, threw the bags after him," Miranda smirks. "That was the end of that."

"You think they were ever together?" Elijah asks mildly, pouring into both empty glasses. "You know, fucking."

"Ian and Billy?"

Miranda shakes her head.

"Billy said not, and if he says they weren't then they weren't," she says. "McKellen fucking loved that man, though, you could see it nearly killed him that Billy wouldn't have anything to do with him after Billy came out of prison. McKellen's funny like that; people who work for him are like his family; they all go back years. Billy's the only one that ever broke away. Lovers, now that's a different story. McKellen changes boyfriends like other men change shirts. Means nothing to him."

"Oh man, this is so screwed," Elijah scowls, dropping his head into his hands and scrubbing his fingers through his hair. "Ian could be after Dom right now. I can't stand to think that something might happen to him while Billy's bringing the money to Cate."

Elijah's swinging his foot under the table, as if that release of tension might just make it possible for him to stay in his seat.

"Crap," he says. "Crap, crap, crap. Look, Miranda, I really appreciate you letting me - "

"I'll go with you," Miranda cuts in, streaming a last lungful of smoke out of the corner of her mouth and stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette.

"What? _Why_?"

"Because I'm an idiot," she grins, the humor finally reaching her eyes and making them sparkle. "Because I don't think McKellen would do anything in front of two witnesses. Because you'll need a ride, anyway."

"You're fantastic," Elijah laughs.

"Yeah, take a ticket," Miranda says, finishing off her drink.

Cut.


	47. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 42

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 42** _

  


The hotel management has done rather well by the MMA Governing Association. There's a long table with a white cloth over the top, a row of water jugs and tumblers, and a couple of big flower arrangements on the floor in front, along with three rows of metal-frame chairs with leatherette upholstery for the members of the press. Craig, glancing around, suspects he's the only journalist here who's not employed by a specialty martial arts publication.

The chairman and two vice chairs of the Association sit at the center of the table, flanked on one side by Rhys Davies looking a little gray in the face, and on the other by Sean Bean and Karl Urban. Bean is wearing a suit and tie and looks pissed off. Urban's movie-star handsome in a pine-green cashmere sweater and a black leather jacket, and looks faintly ill-at-ease. He keeps darting little sidelong glances at Bean, who seems engrossed in the chairman's announcement and the attendant questions from the audience.

"This is rather an unusual stance for the Association to take, isn't it?" someone sitting behind Craig asks. "Adjudicating such a large fine against a fighter when there hasn't been an inquiry? When the fighter in question hasn't made an official statement, as such?"

"Yes… it is," Lee says ponderously. "But… I trust that the significant amount of the fine, ten thousand pounds, will ensure no one makes the mistake of interpreting this as any kind of softening of the Association's attitude toward illegal fighting. In this instance, the Association was very much swayed by Mister Urban's concern that the challenge to his welterweight title be allowed to stand. Given that Mister Bloom has admitted his wrongdoing, albeit in the newspapers rather then through more appropriate channels, we were willing to make a rather generous exception in this case."

"So you believe the Herald's story is trustworthy?" the same reporter asks.

Lee's already gloomy demeanor darkens even further; presumably he feels that any aspersions cast on the Herald's story also imply a criticism of his judgment in believing it. Bean, however, brightens considerably.

"Well, that's Craig Parker, sat at the end of the middle row," he says. "Why don't we ask 'im? Here, Craig, did yer jus' make that story up?"

"Hi Sean," Craig smiles, pretending not to notice the slight flurry of embarrassment among the other reporters. "No, I didn't. But, while I've got your attention, perhaps you'd be willing to confirm or deny the rumors that Karl plans to retire from MMA after this title bout, and start fighting World Boxing Federation rules instead?"

Bean's shit-eating grin turns to blank-faced disbelief, and Karl has to lift his hand to his eyebrow to hide his smirk, and the room erupts into energetic murmurs.

Cut.

Billy pulls off the street into the dead-end bit of lane alongside the Dove and Cross pub, and parks right behind Cate's car. He kills the engine, grabs the attaché case from the passenger seat, and gets out.

Cate gets out of her car and walks back towards Billy.

"Here," Billy says, hefting the attaché case up onto the hood of his car. Cate reaches for it, unzipping it and flipping it open. She runs her fingers across the surface of the bundled cash, judging its level against the depth of the case. She picks a stack at random and unpacks it, glancing at each bundle briefly.

"Looks like it's all here," she murmurs as if to herself.

Billy stiffens and his mouth twists unpleasantly. Cate catches the motion out of the corner of her eye and looks at him contritely.

"I didn't mean – Billy – I just meant - _how_ did you end up with this?"

Billy's annoyance collapses into dismay.

"It's sort of – it was – an accident?" he hazards.

"You accidentally took it from Dom's flat?"

Billy heaves a sigh of bleak relief. So Dom's been found out, but at least Billy can tell the truth about how the money ended up with him.

"No, it was – Dom had it stashed in a gym bag that belongs to Elijah – my boyfriend – Dom's ex. Elijah moved out, but he left his gym bag behind, and then he went teh get it and brought it home wi' him, and when he opened it up … there the money was."

Cate's expression sours.

"Oh … crap," she says with great conviction.

"Look, it's not Elijah's fault," Billy says sharply. "He didn'ah even know it was there until he opened up the bag this evening. He came an' showed me right away, an' I called yeh. You've no cause to be annoyed at him."

"He found a hundred and eleven thousand pounds in his gym bag, and he brought it to you?"

"Who else would he bring it teh?"

"You just said he used to live with Dominic Monaghan," Cate complains.

"Cate, yeh're losin' me on the corners," Billy says with some alarm.

"Oh, forget it," Cate snaps, closing up the case again. "It doesn't matter. You're all insane. Just don't expect me to join in."

"A'right," Billy says placatingly, though he has no idea what she's talking about.

Cut.


	48. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 43

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 43** _

  


"I didn't have a chance to return the key," Elijah says by way of explanation, unlocking the door of Dom's flat.

"I don't get it," Miranda says. "He didn't answer the phone, and his car's not outside, so what's the point?"

"He never answers the phone," Elijah shrugs. "But he often comes home to change his clothes before he goes on for the evening."

Miranda follows him in and closes the door behind them. Elijah leads the way through to the sitting room. Miranda touches his sleeve, and when he turns his head to look inquiringly at her, she tips her chin to indicate the light showing under the closed door of the bedroom. Elijah lifts his eyebrows in acknowledgement. He crosses the hallway to the door and knocks softly.

"Dom?"

There's no response, but Elijah opens the door anyway.

"Dom? Shit! Dom!"

Elijah crosses to the bed in a couple of quick strides. Dom, naked except for his bright green cotton boxers, is lying curled into a fetal knot on his side. The top-sheet has been kicked down to the end of the bed, and the pillows are mostly on the floor.

"Dom – what happened?" Elijah demands.

He reaches out and takes hold of Dom's shoulders, meaning to turn him over onto his back, but he can't believe the raw heat that pours into the palms of his hands from Dom's skin.

"Jesus – he's burning up," Elijah says.

Miranda reaches past him, pressing the backs of her curled fingers to Dom's flushed and darkly bristled cheek.

"Shit."

"Dom, Dom, come on man, wake up," Elijah says anxiously, managing to get Dom rolled over slightly.

Dom's hair is clinging in sweat-darkened curls to his forehead and temples. His cheeks and lips are flushed dark red, and he's breathing in shaky uneven rasps. Elijah palms sticky strands of hair back from Dom's face. Dom shudders, and his eyes flicker open. The rims and whites are so bloodshot his irises look dark blue by contrast.

"Lij," he whispers, and the effort sends him into a hacking cough that shakes his limbs.

"We have to get him out of here," Elijah says, glancing up at Miranda.

Miranda glances around. There's a bottle of aspirin and a pint glass full of water on the night-stand.

"Here, see if you can get two of these into him, try and get his fever down," she says, thrusting the bottle at Elijah.

She turns her attention to finding Dom some clothes. There's a pair of charcoal gray pants, a white tee shirt, and a white shirt semi-neatly folded and piled on the chair in the corner. When she picks them up, she sees that they've already been worn, but she figures they'll do.

She brings them back to the bed, where Elijah's easing Dom back down after wrestling the pills into him. Dom's clutching at Elijah's wrist and murmuring something about being sorry, about not knowing how much it could hurt.

"Let's get some clothes on him," Miranda says.

It takes both of them to scoop Dom's trembling limbs into the legs of his pants and the sleeves of his shirts. He won't shut up, still pleading with Elijah to forgive him, even though Elijah says over and over that everything's okay, they're cool, no hard feelings.

After a few impossibly frustrating minutes of trying to stuff Dom's limp feet into socks and boots they give up, deciding to leave him barefoot and just take his things with them.

"Okay man, let's go," Elijah says encouragingly, helping Dom to sit up on the edge of the bed.

Dom has rallied sufficiently to understand what it is Elijah wants, and tries to lift one arm around Elijah's neck, but his strength fails and his hand skitters a heat-trailed path down Elijah's spine instead.

"It's okay, it's all right," Elijah says, the steadiness of his voice almost belying the dismay in his eyes.

He takes hold of Dom's wrist and brings Dom's arm up, draping it over his shoulder. Miranda comes in on the other side and does the same with Dom's other arm.

"Up," she says, and the three of them stand, Dom half-hanging awkwardly between Elijah, who's an inch and a half shorter than him, and Miranda who's three inches taller.

"Look, I understand if you don't want to bring him back to your house," Elijah says, though God knows he's got no idea where else to take Dom. Billy's too embroiled in this already, McKellen will think of looking at his house, and the same probably goes for Elijah's dorm room.

"I've got somewhere," Miranda says confidently. "I don't think McKellen even knows Billy and I are still in touch; he certainly doesn't know my business. I've got a flat on the Edgeware Road … even Billy doesn't know about it."

Cut.

"Anybody home?" Miranda calls as she unlocks the front door of the ground floor flat, but there's no answer.

"Who lives here?" Elijah asks as they half-haul half-carry Dom across the threshold.

"No one, and my girls mostly work days and early evenings, but occasionally someone will take a late evening booking."

For a second Elijah's big blue eyes convey only confusion.

"The punters have to get home to their wives same as everyone else," Miranda says by way of explanation.

"Oh."

Elijah's cheeks flush a little, more in embarrassment at his own obtuseness than anything else.

"Bedroom, right there," Miranda says breathlessly.

The room's prettily decorated in knock-off Laura Ashley, and only the absence of a wardrobe or chest of drawers distinguishes it from any other bedroom Elijah's seen.

They dump Dom on the bed (neatly made with clean sheets, Elijah notes; Miranda runs an orderly house).

"Get him undressed and into bed again," Miranda says, opening the window a little and pulling the curtains closed. "I'll get him something to drink."

She comes back with a big glass jug of well-watered orange juice and a tumbler on a tray, together with a folded towel wrung out in cold water.

"We've got to cool him down," she explains.

She sets the tray down on the dresser and brings the towel over to the bed. She waves Elijah out of the way and sits down on the side of the mattress. She leans in, dabbing the cold cloth very lightly along Dom's hairline.

Dom inhales sharply, his eyes flashing open.

"Ian."

"Shh, it's okay, you're safe," Miranda says firmly, exchanging a look of pitying concern with Elijah. "He won't come looking for you here, I promise."

Dom squeezes his eyes shut again and twists his face into the pillow.

"I'll take care of him," Miranda says. "You go and call Billy, tell him where we are; he'll be frantic if Hugo's turned up at the house and found you gone."

"You don't want to do your call first?"

"There's no one looking for me, honey," Miranda smiles. "Go on."

Cut.

"Miranda?" Bernard shouts through the letter-box flap on the front door of the house. "Miranda!"

He straightens up from his crouch and steps back, surveying the front of the house with annoyance. It's bad enough that Hugo's gone missing in action, unreachable at home or by cell-phone, leaving Bernard to deal with the fall-out from Billy's continuing entanglement with Dominic bloody Monaghan, but now it looks like Bernard's made the trip for nothing.

For a minute Bernard considers just going home again, but he's still hearing the faintly panicked tone of Billy's voice when he'd called. McKellen's a bloody villain and not above breaking legs and heads when it suits him, Dom Monaghan's an infallible fecking magnet for trouble, and Miranda's sometimes too bloody feisty for her own good.

Bernard heaves a mighty sigh and takes his keys out of his pocket, sorting through the various rings and clips, looking for the never-used key that fits this door. He finally finds it, and lets himself in.

"Miranda?" he calls, closing the door behind him and making his way down the passageway to the darkened kitchen.

He flicks the light on, glancing around the neat counters and polished sink. One thing about Miranda, she's a cracking housewife and no mistake, she likes things just so. He turns the light off again and glances into the dining-room. The gleam of the hall light reflecting on glass draws his gaze to the table. He flips the light on as he enters.

There's a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and dirty ashtray, two tumblers and a bottle of Glenfidditch Scotch on the table. Bernard reaches for the bottle, tipping it to one side so he can see the label properly. Miranda doesn't know good Scotch from dish-water, she'll buy whatever's cheapest. Glenfidditch is Bernard's brand.

"What have you gotten yourself into now, girlie?" he murmurs.

Cut.

"Monaghan!" Cate yells, kicking the bottom of the flat's front door with insane venom. "If you're in there, open this fucking door!"

She waits, shoulders heaving and teeth bared, but he doesn't answer. It's not the most subtle way of finding out if he's home, but Cate passed subtle several exits back. If he does turn out to be in there, she fully intends to take this bloody attaché case and shove it down his throat.

It takes ten seconds and her credit card to get the door open. She shoulders her way inside and slams the door behind her. The mess hasn't gotten any better, and the smell's marginally worse. Cate stomps into the bedroom, turns the overhead light on, and looks around for inspiration. She glances upwards, and her gaze falls on a dark blue suitcase on top of the closet. She wouldn't even consider it except for the cardboard label hanging off the handle, with the legend 'Dominic Monaghan' and the flat's address written in thick black pen.

Cate throws the attaché case on the bed and crosses to the closet. She reaches up and pulls the case down, bringing a cloud of dust and a couple of dog-eared copies of Playgirl with it. Cate coughs and bats at the dust clinging to her hair, then slings the case onto the bed and opens it up.

There's one black sock and an unopened condom inside. Cate adds the attaché case, then flips the lid closed but doesn't refasten it. She nobly resists the urge to find a piece of paper and a pen so she can attach a note saying 'open me, dickwad'.

She leaves the light on, suspecting Dom might be capable of coming in in the dark and getting into bed beside the suitcase without becoming aware of its presence.

On the way back out, she slams the door hard enough to knock down one of the lovely seashell pictures Dom's mom sent him from her holiday in Corfu.

Cut.

"Billy, it's Bernard," Bernard says as soon as Billy answers the phone. "Look, I couldn't find Hugo so I went out to the house meself and they're - "

"I know, Elijah called me," Billy cuts in. "They went to get Dom."

"Fuckin' hell."

"Tell me abou' it. Still, they're all a'right, so I'm not goin' teh make a fuss now. Elijah said they're at Miranda's flat – does that mean anythin' teh yeh?"

"Yeah, yeah, she keeps a flat in - "

"Don' tell me, I don' need to know," Billy says. "I'm in this way too fuckin' deep, I need to stay away from them. If McKellen's lookin' fer Dom he's bound to start wi' me."

"What do y'need me to do?" Bernard asks earnestly.

"Jus' make sure they're okay. Elijah says Dom's sick; looks like he'll have to stay there a day or two."

"Right, I'll check up on them. What about you?"

"Well, I figure I'll go by Dom's place, pack up some of his stuff. That way if McKellen looks for him there, it'll look like he's already done a runner. First thing in the morning I'll stop by the bank and clean out mah account, and once Dom's on his feet again we'll give him the money an' stick him on the first transportation outta here. An' I fer one intend teh tell him tha' if I ever see his face again, I'll break his fuckin' neck m'self."

"Fair enough."

"Aye. An' Bernard?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell mah boy … tell him I said … "

"Yeah," Bernard says softly, and Billy can hear the wry smile in his gruff voice. "I'll tell 'im."

Cut.

Cate fingers a stray lock of hair off her face as she strides quickly across the lounge of the Casino Club.

"Cate, sweetheart," Ian says, turning away from the bar at her approach.

"Ian."

Cate comes to an abrupt halt.

"I want you to look in on Dominic for me," Ian says blandly. "Just … see what he's up to."

"He's not around," Cate says at once. "I just came from his flat."

Ian frowns, at first in disappointment and then in confusion.

"What were you doing _there_?"

Cate presses her fingers to her eyes for a second.

"It's a thing, it's a whole … thing," she says sharply. "Can we talk about this later? I have to change."

"Yes, of course," Ian says, and the gentleness of his tone tells Cate she's acting badly enough for him to be concerned, and that doesn't help her temper one bit.

Cut.

It takes Billy a bit of fiddling and fussing with the pen-knife attached to his key-ring, but he eventually springs the lock on the door of Dom's flat. There's a light on at the end of the hallway, and Billy heads straight for it.

He walks into the bedroom and spots the suitcase lying on the bed. He can't help heaving a sigh of relief; if Dom's already made the decision to cut and run, Billy won't have to face the monumental task of persuading him to go.

Billy starts grabbing up clothes from the various surfaces around the room until both arms are filled and he's having to crane his chin upwards to avoid a faceful of Dom's underwear. Without looking down, Billy edges up to the bed and hooks his finger under the suitcase lid. By touch alone he manages to flip it up just enough so that the collapse of the pile in his arms lands mostly inside and partially around the case. Billy scoops up the escapees and dumps them in around the edges, then sort of levels things out a bit.

He picks up a couple pairs of boots and sneakers and throws them in too, then goes into the bathroom and grabs the first half dozen things he sees. He comes back, adds them to the case and closes it up. He hauls the case off the bed, turns out the light, and leaves.

Cut.


	49. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 44 (OB/KU)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 44 (OB/KU)** _

Apologies to those who are undoubtedly going to get six copies of this on their flist - livejournal is pissing on me.

Just a snippet really, but it won't fit on Part 45 timeline wise.

"Ten thousand quid," Orli says, his forehead crinkling in bemusement. "How much do they think street-fighting pays?"

"We haggled them down from twenty," Karl says.

Orli snorts in reluctant amusement.

"Astin and Daisy are tapped out," he says. "The gym's in hock up to here, and Astin hasn't gotten a penny in training fees for me yet."

Karl grimaces, shrugs.

"Your manager?"

"I highly fucking doubt it. There's a distinct smell of desperation about Dom. I think he's looking to _me_ to lay a golden egg."

"Figures. Don't worry about it. I can raise that kind of money," Karl says.

For a second Orli's eyes soften, then he reaches out and palms Karl's face aside.

"No way. No one should have to pay that much to get their own arse kicked. Besides, Astin would want to know where I got it, and I don't want to have to lie to him. Not anymore than I already am, at any rate."

"So what are you going to do?"

"The house is mine, free and clear pretty much. Gran had her mortgage paid off. I owe a few grand in death duties on it, but other than that … I can raise ten grand against the house."

Karl nods, his expression serious.

"And you know, no matter what happens, it gets paid back out of the fight purse, right?"

"Sure," Orli smiles. "After I beat you shitless, I'm gonna take my twenty grand prize money, pay off the loan, and we'll spend the rest on blond rent-boys and - "

The remainder of Orli's scheme is lost in a flurry of laughter as Karl tips him back among the couch cushions.


	50. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 45 (DM/MO NC-17)

  
  
  
  
  


**Current mood:**

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busy  
  
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If you're a member of the generation who grew up and got internet access since the previous part of this was posted, I recommend [](http://zoniduck.insanejournal.com/profile)[**zoniduck**](http://zoniduck.insanejournal.com/)'s excellent users' guide [here](http://www.livejournal.com/users/zoniduck/16689.html). And links to all the chapters can be found [here](http://www.livejournal.com/users/spillingvelvet/93256.html) courtesy of [](http://spillingvelvet.insanejournal.com/profile)[**spillingvelvet**](http://spillingvelvet.insanejournal.com/).

"Oh my God, this is absolutely fantastic," Peter crows.

It's lunchtime and the restaurant's packed, so he draws more than a few covert glances from the tables surrounding the one he's sharing with Viggo.

"Is there any more?"

He glances up from the pages he's skimming and cranes to look into the attaché case sitting open beside Viggo's elbow.

"That's pretty much it," Viggo shrugs. "There's some back-story stuff, characterization exercises for Dominic, but you've seen everything that really fits into the plot."

" _Fantastic_ ," Peter says again, pushing his wineglass aside so he can lay out the pages he's just finished on top of the slew of other papers.

He takes up a torn-out newspaper article headed 'MMA Welterweight Fight Back On – ten thousand pound fine against illegal fighter'.

"But I don't know what to do with it now, now that it's turned into a newspaper story," Viggo says.

"What? Are you crazy?" Peter demands, jiggling his spectacles on his nose to relieve his feelings. "You have to keep going. It's a terrific story. It's got a few weak spots but - "

"Like what?"

"Oh, well, I'm no novelist remember, I'm just a movie hack."

"Then, speaking as a movie hack, what are the weak spots?" Viggo presses.

"You need a romance, for a start."

"The brooding academic is sleeping with the Adonis-like boxer."

"A kooky comedy mismatch won't do it for this story. You need something epic, something Romeo and Juliet. Doomed love across the battle-lines. Have the Orlando character fall in love with someone from the other fighter's camp."

"Okay," Viggo laughs. "Anything else?"

"The Dominic character needs more jeopardy. Some reason this fight is more than just the fight. Say … say he owes a bunch of money to some shady underworld character, and this fight is his only hope of paying it back. Oh, and you do realize the brooding academic is going to have to be changed to a woman, right?"

"What?"

"You want this to do business in the multiplexes, sorry, the gay sex angle is right out."

Viggo folds his arms, his mouth tightening down into a straight line.

"We'll get Lili Taylor," Peter says cheerfully. "I always thought she'd make a great female you."

Cut.

Dom comes awake slowly, rubbing the softening fourth-day bristle on his jaw against the crisp pillowslip, and wiping his tongue over dry lips. His eyes flicker open reluctantly, narrowed against the daylight filtering through the floral curtains.

"Welcome back," Miranda says, setting a steaming mug down on the nightstand next to him. "There's tea."

Dom shapes an uncertain smile as he sits up, the sheet falling back from his bare chest and arms.

"Should I know you?" he asks, and his voice sounds rusty from disuse.

Miranda shakes her head.

"I'm Miranda," she says, circling the bed and pulling the curtains open. "I'm a friend of Billy Boyd's."

Dom ducks his head aside, wincing a little at the touch of the afternoon light.

"Miranda. Look, don't get me wrong, I'm delighted to be waking up in your bed with no recollection of how I got here, but … how the fuck did I get here?"

Miranda comes back around to his side of the bed, smiling at him.

"Elijah and I brought you last night. You were sick. Do you remember that?"

She leans in, putting her hand to his forehead. Dom's skin is cool and dry; Miranda nods, satisfied.

"I thought … I thought I dreamt that stuff about Elijah," Dom says. "Shit."

"Yeah, you were pretty much off your rocker. Drink your tea, then you can take a shower and I'll make you something to eat."

Cut.

Dom comes into the sparse kitchen with his skin pink and his hair damp from the shower, wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips.

"Your clothes'll be out of the drier in a few minutes," Miranda says, flipping two fried eggs from the pan onto an already laden plate. "But you'll have to wait until someone brings your suitcase over to shave. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it – it's softening up now, not so annoying," Dom shrugs, rubbing his fingers over his darkening beard as he sits down at the table.

Miranda puts the plate in front of him, passes him a fresh mug of tea, pours another mug for herself and sits opposite him. Dom takes up his knife and fork and starts at one edge of a piece of bacon. Miranda sips her tea and watches him thoughtfully.

"You're in pretty deep, aren't you?" she asks out of the silence.

Dom looks up at once, but he takes his time chewing and swallowing before he answers.

"What d'you mean?"

"With McKellen."

Dom sets his knife and fork down and lifts his mug. He takes a deliberate mouthful, sets the mug down again.

"I'm not sure that's any of your business, Miranda."

"You're sitting in my kitchen, eating my food, and wearing my towel," Miranda says. "It's my business, believe me."

Dom shoves the plate away hard enough to rattle the flatware onto the table, pushes his chair back and stands up.

"Y'know what? You can't cook, I'm not hungry, and here's your soddin' towel back."

He yanks the towel loose and dumps it in her lap as he stalks past her and out of the kitchen. Miranda hears the bedroom door open and then slam shut again. She lifts the towel, shaking it out and folding it methodically in quarters, pushing her mug aside to make space to set it down on table.

Cut.

Miranda nudges around the door, the neatly folded pile of Dom's clean clothes in her arms. Dom, still buck naked, is slouched in the armchair on the far side of the bed. His eyes are closed and his head's tipped back in what might almost pass for an attitude of repose if it weren't for the scowl darkening his features. Miranda comes towards him.

"You're being a complete arse," she says. "Is it helping?"

Dom's eyes snap open, but otherwise he doesn't respond. Miranda stares him down for a second or two before sighing out her exasperation and turning away. She sets the pile of his clothes on the bed, then presses her hands to the small of her back and arches wearily.

"You should go," she says, swiping at the loose fall of her hair where it hangs into her face. "Get out of London. Go home to Manchester. Better yet, get out of the fucking country. America: that's where they hand out fortunes to likely lads like you, isn't it?"

She turns her head to look at him. Dom's watching her, one hand lifted to his face, fingertips idling on his top lip.

"I can't go," he says abruptly. "I can't leave London. The only person on earth I give a flying fuck about is here. There's no point, if I can't … if I can't at least … "

He trails off, his chin jerking in a sort of stifled gesture of negation. Miranda pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking of Billy and Elijah and the soft fire burning in their eyes. She feels a small sharp pang, once on her own behalf, a second time on Dom's. She turns to face him more fully and folds her arms across her breasts.

"Billy thinks McKellen's going to have you killed, over the money."

Dom rubs his fingers on his nose.

"I'm sure Billy knows what he's talking about."

"So you're ready to die for love?" Miranda says, meaning her voice to be harsh but it comes out thick with the weight of sympathy behind it.

"I'm not much interested in living for anything else," Dom says. "Is that the same thing?"

Miranda eases down onto the edge of the bed. Dom drops his hand into his lap in a screening gesture, but the movement only succeeds in drawing Miranda's eyes with it so she sees how his cock is lying along his thigh, soft but thickening. Miranda looks up again, and Dom's staring at her. He's not what you'd call handsome, she thinks, all heavy crooked jaw and short snub nose, but God he's got beautiful eyes. He's beautifully built too, just a little taller than Billy but with broader bones and a much heavier layer of muscle clothing them.

There's a kind of cruel symmetry to this dance. Miranda and Billy, Billy and Dom, Dom and Elijah. Now the music's stopped and it's Billy and Elijah who are together, Miranda and Dom who are left out.

"Dominic," Miranda says, for no other reason than to feel the shape of it in her mouth, to feel how different it is from saying 'Billy'.

Dom slouches a little lower in his chair, his head tipped to one side against the curved backrest so he's looking at her from the corners of his eyes. His lips are parted and he's breathing slowly and deeply. The hand that was half-shielding the head of his cock wraps around it in an idle caress instead.

"Come'ere," he breathes.

Miranda stands, takes the two steps that put her standing over him. Dom lifts his chin, lips parting in a small coaxing gesture that reminds Miranda poignantly of a baby-bird. There's a knot of something painful just below her heart. She straddles his thighs, and lowers herself into his naked lap. Dom's breath quivers a little and his hands skim lightly over the silky fabric covering her thighs and over the folds of her shirt as if testing, looking for a place to begin. The fingers of one slender hand curl gently around the curve of her breast; he looks up her, eyebrows hitched questioningly.

Miranda leans in, pushing against his touch. She runs both hands up the swell of his biceps and shoulders, his skin velvety under her palms. Dom's chest rises and falls more deliberately, his breathing turning intent. His fingers splay over her breast, rubbing the fabric of her shirt over the rough lace of her bra cup. He shifts, sitting up straighter and pulling her in closer so he can bury his face in her open shirt collar.

"You smell really fucking good," he says, licking his way down the creamy skin of her throat to the notch between her collarbones.

He lifts his head again, looking at her heavy-eyed from under his eyelashes while his fingers circle around her breast, around her nipple, and finally squeeze softly around fabric and lace and stiffening flesh. Miranda's eyes flicker and she inhales shakily.

"That's fucking beautiful," Dom murmurs, his gaze sliding to her half-open mouth.

Miranda pulls back, pulls away, and stands up again. Dom hisses out a breath of disappointment and his hands close white-knuckled around the arms of the chair. His cock is hard enough to lie slanting upwards along the crease of his groin. Miranda takes another step back, which puts the back of her thighs against the edge of the bed. She holds her hands out to Dom.

"Come on."

"Fuck yeah."

He stands up, reaching out for her even as he steps forward, and Miranda lies down across the bed and Dom crawls onto her. He shudders out a grateful sigh at the first blissful press of his naked body against her clothed curves. Miranda arches under him, grinding her pelvis against his erection. Dom sinks his fingers into the bright spill of her hair and angles his mouth against the curl of her ear.

Miranda twists her head around and their mouths slide together. Dom writhes on her, trying to find edges to crush his hunger against, but she's all curves and woman's warmth. It's been years since Dom's been with a girl, and even then he always liked them tall and athletic with lean muscular bodies. Even Elijah, for all his slight build, has the heavier bones and harder body of a young man.

Frustrated, Dom claws his way under the clinging fabric of Miranda's shirt, pushing it up on the round crests of her ribcage and slithering down her body to bring his mouth to her bare skin. He sinks his teeth and his fingernails into the satiny flesh.

"Oh – shit – yeah, come _on_ ," Miranda gasps, snaking one long leg around Dom's hips and yanking him in tighter.

"Fuck you," Dom says, feeling anger and hunger flaring like a red flower in his belly and the only thing that can assuage the pain is the feel of her too-soft body under his hands.

He jerks too roughly at the zipper of her pants and she has to shove his hands aside and do it for him, less force making for more progress. But once it's open and he sees the slice of her honey-pale skin in the vee of dark brown fabric, he tugs the garment down and off and God when did he forget that women's bodies can be so soft, so secret? Where there should be brazen sinews and bones, there're only subtle curves and a faint scent like rain and roses.

"Oh Christ – you're so fucking gorgeous," Dom gasps, dragging his mouth down along the exquisite warmth of Miranda's inner thigh, around the smooth oval of her kneecap.

"Come on, Dominic, come on."

She arches again, the tipping of her hips telling him what she wants.

Dom bites down hard enough to make Miranda hiss.

"Fucker," she mutters, shoving one bare heel against his ribs.

Dom grins, rubbing his lips on the reddening crescent marked in her skin. He nuzzles his way upwards again, nosing at her underwear. He inhales hard, shocked by how unexpected her smell – too thick, too smoky – is.

Miranda shifts under him, skimming the little scrap of fabric down over her thighs and calves and toes and throwing it away. Dom's glance skitters back upwards to the fair brown fur of hair between her legs.

Shit. He has a second of blank confusion at the way her flesh flows uninterrupted over the curve of her pubic bone and down …

 _Shit_. Dom glances upwards again, over the rucked up tails of her shirt and the swell of her breasts to her face. Miranda's eyes are half-hooded, her cheeks flushed, her tongue circling slowly around her upper lip. Dom smiles shakily. She wants it. He's almost completely sure she wants it, despite the lack of jutting reassurance between her legs.

Dom palms one of her thighs upwards and outwards a little. The folds of her sex kiss open, revealing convolutions that are deep rose and shining wetly. No lube, Dom remembers, smiling in growing delight. He shoulders himself down between her legs, one hand splayed flat on the soft curve of her belly, the other supporting her thigh. He blows gently onto her, amused at how her smell ruffles back complex and cloying into his nostrils.

Miranda's breathing turns harsh and she twists her fingers into his hair. Dom squeezes his eyes closed, holds his breath, and just plunges his tongue into her.

The taste explodes in his mouth, sharper and thinner than he's used to, clean and sour as lemon juice or apple cider. Miranda cries out, shocked and savage, and Dom has to ride the heave of her hips under him. He stabs with his tongue, feeling the satiny flesh inside her yield forgivingly. Miranda's sobbing for air, a wild sound that quivers in Dom's chest like joy and his own heart's going a mile a minute.

Dom licks out and upwards, along folds of skin that feel ridiculously soft and slippery. The distances involved are startlingly small – no need to lift his head or even tip his chin, a flick of the tongue is all that's required to smooth her clit from root to tip and win a shuddering groan from her. Dom sucks the little ridge of flesh into his mouth, pulling it rhythmically against his lips. Blowjob. The idea's so silly – his mouth's empty except for this pip-sized nugget of flesh - that Dom starts to laugh and Miranda quivers as the sound vibrates against her.

Dom opens his eyes again, gazing up from under his eyelashes to see as well as feel her belly rise and fall. He cheats his hand from behind her thigh to between her legs. Even landmarks he should know well – the cleft of a behind and the gathered skin around an arsehole – seem strange, framed by too much soft flesh and a warm wetness he didn't have to provide. He nudges his fingertips forward, letting the lack of yield guide him to where – oh – her body gives and his fingers sink easily inwards.

Miranda's making small sounds, broken and low. Dom pushes his fingers further in, aghast at how the cavity yields with only minimal resistance. The satiny walls puff and billow under his fingertips; she feels like the inside of Elijah's mouth. Dom lifts his head, wiping his mouth and chin off on his arm. Miranda struggles up onto her elbows and stares at Dom from under the sliding curtain of her hair.

"Let me fuck you," Dom says huskily, already crawling up the length of her body, twisting his fingers inside her.

Miranda doesn't say 'yes', she just eases down onto her back again and winds her arms around him and pulls him in closer. Dom's eyes flutter closed and for a minute he just rubs his face against the mesmerizing softness of her skin – throat and shoulder and the upper curve of her breast where it shows in the disordered neckline of her shirt.

"So fucking beautiful," he says dreamily.

Miranda's hands slide down the curve of his spine and around his hips.

"Come on," she breathes, hooking her foot into the back of his knee.

Dom shifts to take his weight on one hand and uses the other to rub the head of his cock in the streaming wetness inside the folds of her cunt.

"Gently," Miranda says but he's already pushing forward and there's a breath-taking jolt and slide and Dom's eyes fly wide open at the unfamiliar ease with which he slips in.

Dom pauses, then pushes forwards again with more control and less force. Miranda flexes, dragging her heel lingeringly up the back of his thigh and digging her fingernails into his ass.

"Oh – fuck," Dom sighs as he settles down against her with his mouth beside her ear.

"Yeah," Miranda purrs.

Dom lifts his hips, gasping at the liquid slide of his cock out of her. So fucking soft, so soft it almost hurts. He dips in again, and the hot smear along his nerves makes him moan.

"Good, like that, slow," Miranda says, her hands running back up his spine and her fingers weaving into his hair to cradle the curve of his skull.

Dom ripples again, away and back, and the surge of heat flows over him like a wave.

Miranda's grip tightens in his hair and she pulls his head up and back, forcing him to look her in the eyes. Dom blinks under the next onslaught of softness and wetness.

"Harder," Miranda says, tilting her head so her throat arches tightly. "Not faster, just harder."

Dom fists both hands in the quilt, lifting away from her and locking his elbows out for leverage and a better angle. This time he slides back and then _shoves_ forward so his pelvis jolts against hers and he gasps in shock at the sense of dead-end, of the space inside her curling away steeply and the head of his cock pushing against something yielding and stretching but – there, definite, undeniable. Dom exhales a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the sheer strangeness of the sensation.

"Yeah come on," Miranda urges.

It's like fucking in a dream, Dom thinks. Good – really fucking good – but blurred, no sharp edges, like the sensation slips out of focus every time he tries to really to concentrate on it. Miranda moves under him, eager and so easy. She's breathless, her hair streaming across her open mouth, but there's still a sort of serenity there too. Dom puts one hand flat in the middle of her chest, stilling them both. She frowns at him.

Dom sinks his teeth into his lower lip and pulls back, pulls out.

"Turn over," he says, already gripping Miranda by the hips and pushing her onto her belly.

Miranda twists and shoves up onto her hands and knees. Dom shifts in tight behind her, palming the cheek of her behind and rubbing his cock against the back of her thigh. He runs his fingertips through the wetness of her cunt and back up to her asshole.

"In here, yeah?" he murmurs, pressing his finger in just enough to feel the muscle's fierce resistance.

"Oh you _fucking_ fag," Miranda groans, her head coming up and back and her eyes sliding closed.

Dom laughs, open-mouthed and breathless.

"That's not a 'no'," he says, pushing his finger in further and squeezing his eyes shut to better savor the way her body grips and grinds on the slender intrusion.

Miranda makes an angry guttural sound that quivers in the pit of Dom's guts. He puts one hand under her, fingers splayed on the softness of her belly, and uses the other to rub the head of his cock in her wetness then nudge himself against her hole. Miranda's spine curves as she arches up toward him, and he feels the softening of the muscle as she pushes out against him. Dom presses in and there's a increment of softness that's easy to pierce, then a wringing tightness that he has to really push hard to overcome and then – sweet fucking Jesus – the pressure surrounding him is almost painful and utterly exquisite.

"Fuck!" Miranda cries, her spine flexing away from him this time.

"Up, come up," Dom says shakily.

He guides her up onto her knees so that his naked chest is pressed against the silky cloth at the back of her shirt, and the angle between their bodies is shallower and easier for her. The first half-dozen times Dom had Elijah they did it like this, until Elijah got braver and greedier and turned into the insatiable little whore he is.

"All right?" Dom whispers, rubbing the side of his face in the tangle of her hair.

He takes hold of her hands in his and Miranda lets her head drop back against Dom's shoulder. Dom rocks gently, working just the head of his cock in her tight opening. Miranda's breath stutters and she groans in pleasure. Dom grins against her ear.

Miranda brings their interwoven right hands forwards, pressing Dom's fingertips into the wet folds around her clit, showing him the exact pressure and motion she wants. Dom squeezes his eyes shut and gives himself up to the feel of it. He's got to admit that the ready slide of his fingers on her flesh is nice, convenient. The softness of her body against his is still distracting, but if anything it just highlights by contrast how very fucking familiar and right and good the feel of her arse around his cock is. This is nice.

"This is really fucking nice."

Miranda gasps, her fingernails biting into the back of Dom's hand. Dom licks sweat off his upper lip. He can feel the red-hot tug in the pit of his stomach, feel his focus folding in on itself until there's only the beat of his heart and the rasp of his breath and the fucking beautiful grip around his cock.

Dom can feel Miranda's body tensing, and her breathing's getting more staccato, more rapid. Dom's heartbeat doubles and triples, hammering at his breastbone. Dark fire ripples along his nerves, up and down his spine. Something weighty and quivering collects deep in his guts.

Miranda's gasps break into raw cries of shocked pleasure. Her claws are tearing red-hot furrows in Dom's right wrist. Dom shoves his left hand over her open mouth, and Miranda sinks her teeth into his palm hard enough to make him grunt in pain.

Miranda arches, every muscle hard, and Dom presses on her clit and works his hips with complete abandon and he feels her body blossom in a rush of heat and so much wetness that he can feel it smearing on his thighs and then she jerks away from him, falling onto her hands and knees and she's wide fucking open and Dom just

goes for it

hard and deep and the thing quivering in his guts shakes its way higher and wider and better and

there.

Dom cries out harshly, and his voice cracks and fails and he's exhaling from already achingly empty lungs.

He starts to shake. He folds down onto the sweat-slick curve of Miranda's spine, gasping for breath against her skin.

"Oh you – fucking - _animal_ ," Miranda pants, pushing up with her shoulders until Dom obligingly rolls off her into a sprawl on his back.

Dom laughs breathlessly.

"You're not bad yourself," he says weakly.

Miranda swipes the mess of her hair off her face.

"So … you wanna go again?" she asks hoarsely.

Dom grins.

"Yeah, just gimme a sec."

Cut.

 _  
**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 45 (DM/MO NC-17)**   
_


	51. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 46 (EW/BB NC-17).

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 46 (EW/BB NC-17).** _

  


"Are you moving in? Fantastic," Elijah says, stepping back from the threshold of his dorm room to let Billy maneuver the suitcase around the doorway.

"It's some o'Dom's stuff. I thought y'could take it over the Miranda's when y'get a chance," Billy says, heeling the door partially closed. He dumps the suitcase, freeing both his hands to catch hold of Elijah's face and pull him into a messy, magnificent kiss.

For a long moment there's only the rise and fall of their breath, the rustle of hands over clothed bodies, and the wet whisper of their lips.

"Oh – _mmm_ ," Elijah moans against Billy's mouth. "I missed you. It's been hours and _hours_."

"Nineteen hours," Billy answers, untangling himself from Elijah just enough to shrug his jacket off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. "Look, I can't stay. McKellen's got his money back but he's bound to be lookin' fer Dom, and that means he's lookin' fer me."

"Yeah I understand," Elijah says, both hands working up under the hem of Billy's sweater and the tee shirt beneath it.

Billy gasps as Elijah's small hot hands slide over his naked chest. Their mouths jar together again, tongues circling each other dizzyingly.

"I hafta go," Billy says, half-dragging himself away and stumbling so he backs into the door and it swings the rest of the way shut with him up against it and Elijah jolting against him hard enough to make them both gasp with the sweet shock of it.

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

"Oh God," Billy says, his head coming up and back with a solid thud against the door as Elijah licks the curl of Billy's ear.

"I couldn't sleep last night," Elijah says. "All I could think about was you, kissing me, sucking me, _fucking_ me."

Billy shoves himself against Elijah hard enough to push them both off the back of the door. Elijah winds his arms around Billy's neck, mouthing at Billy's chin and jaw. Billy smears his hands over and around and under Elijah's arse, fingers pushing against taut denim. Elijah guides them both through half a turn and two unsteady steps until he's backed up against his desk.

"Billy. Just for a second. Just for a minute."

"Aye, just fer a minute."

Billy scoops Elijah up and deposits him gracelessly on the desk in the midst of the open textbooks and pages of notes. Elijah pushes his thighs wide apart in brazen invitation. Billy, his eyes dulling with desire, shifts so he's pressed against the desk edge with Elijah's legs wrapped around his hips and his groin tantalizingly close to Elijah's.

"Baby," Elijah breathes against Billy's lips, and this time when his hands go under Billy's clothes he rakes his stubby fingernails up Billy's sides.

"I couldn'ah sleep either," Billy says, his thumbs smearing over Elijah's curling lips. "All I could think abou' was you."

"Tell me," Elijah says, and he pushes his hands so far up onto Billy's shoulders that Billy ducks and twists and pulls his arms out of his sleeves and Elijah throws the tangle of discarded sweater and tee shirt onto the floor. Elijah rubs his nose and mouth over Billy's bare shoulder and into the fuzz of rusty hair between Billy's collarbones.

"You, yer beautiful fuckin' body," Billy growls, one hand scooping down between Elijah's legs and pushing at the rigid bulge in his jeans.

"Oh - _fuck!_ " Elijah cries, jerking Billy in harder with the insides of his thighs pressed to Billy's hips.

"Yer beautiful fuckin' arse," Billy says, shoving his hand further under Elijah to illustrate.

Abruptly Elijah untangles himself and scoots further back on the desk, crumpling his yellow notepad. He yanks open the buttons of his jeans and wriggles frantically, trying to escape.

"Aye fuckin' aye," Billy says, grabbing hold of two fistfuls of denim and helping Elijah to strip the garment down and then it fouls on Elijah's boots and there's a lot of energetic and inefficient dragging at Elijah's bootlaces and boots and socks and finally - _finally_ \- everything comes off in a big knot and Billy kicks it all out of the way while Elijah wriggles out of his shorts.

Elijah shifts forwards on the desk again, this time tearing the top page of his notes clean in half as he traps Billy between his thighs again and devours Billy's mouth. Eventually Billy has to pull away from the kiss, gasping for breath.

"Yer beautiful _tight_ fuckin' arse," he pants, his fingertip circling in the pout of Elijah's hole.

Elijah groans and tips his head back, teeth indenting a bright curve in his own lower lip.

"Oh – fuck – yeah."

Billy takes his finger away and puts it to his own mouth, licking it wet then putting it back in the cleft of Elijah's arse. Another circle, then an inexorable push inwards. Elijah hisses.

"Yeh feel so fuckin' good. So tight. So hot."

"Oh _God_."

"Mah beautiful boy."

"Oh God that's so good," Elijah whines, clutching at Billy's shoulders while Billy works his finger deeper into Elijah's body.

"Aye but there's somethin' yeh like better, isn't there?" Billy says slyly.

"Oh fuck. Oh yeah. Oh – lube, shit, lube."

Elijah twists, grabbing for his book bag and upending it so everything inside spills out and scatters across the desk and some things fall onto the floor. Elijah scrabbles through the debris, knocking pens and cigarette packets and his calculator off the desk too before he finally grabs the bottle he's been carrying around in the hopes of a chance to stop by the betting shop.

"Here, here," he says, shoving the lube into Billy's free hand and then leaning back, one hand braced on the desk but the other leaving sweat smears on the pages of his calculus textbook.

Billy screws his finger out again, biting his lip and wincing as if the sensation is just as intense for him as it is for Elijah. Billy flips the bottle's squirt-lid up and squeezes out a blob of liquid.

"Oh," Elijah sighs, his eyelids flickering at the cool kiss of Billy's fingers in the cleft of his arse.

Elijah lifts one bare foot, rubbing his heel on Billy's denim-covered behind.

"Please."

Elijah tilts his arse down at the same instant Billy presses up and two of Billy's fingers slide in and Elijah tips his head up and yowls in savage delight and Billy gasps in shocked arousal. Elijah uses his foot to hook Billy in even closer, close enough for Elijah – hissing his breath through his teeth as he comes to terms with the stretch of Billy's fingers in him – to get to grips with Billy's belt buckle.

Elijah works the leather tab free and then thumbs the button at Billy's waistband open, and all the while Billy pushes and pulls and turns his fingers inside him so that Elijah keeps having to stop to gasp wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

Elijah manages to drag himself into focus, his hands trembling a little as he pulls Billy's zip open and eases Billy's jeans down over his narrow hips. Billy's wearing a pair of fairly venerable boxer briefs and his erection's stretching the fabric thin. Elijah exhales a greedy smile and rubs both hands over the heated bulge, making Billy shudder.

"I want it, Billy," Elijah croons, and Billy squeezes his eyes shut because the sight of Elijah's lust-lazy smile is too hot to bear.

"I want it," Elijah says again, fumbling up the bottle of lube and filling his palm with the cool liquid.

He puts his hand down inside the waist of Billy shorts, and Billy's cock is already slick with precum and hotter than hell and Billy gasps in shock as Elijah circles his palm right around the head.

"Fuck that's cold."

"Slow you down a little," Elijah says, his fingers sliding silkily on Billy's shaft and down around the loose curves of his balls.

"Oh God … that's nice," Billy sighs, his body swaying fractionally with each push and pull of Elijah's hand.

"I know something you like even better," Elijah smiles, his eyes only inches from Billy's.

Billy hisses his breath in through his teeth, nose wrinkling in amusement.

"Aye, so you do."

Billy slips his fingers inside the waist of his shorts and pushes them down over himself and Elijah's still luxuriously wandering hand. Elijah twists his grip on Billy's cock, taking advantage of the sudden removal of restriction and working Billy's shaft with slow strokes all along its length.

"I want it," Elijah breathes again. "I really fucking want it."

"Lie back."

Elijah lets Billy go and stretches out on the desk, his spine arched to accommodate the thick textbook lying in the small of his back.

"Feet up."

Elijah obeys at once, swinging his bare legs up onto Billy's shoulders and hitching himself forwards under the guidance of Billy's hands on his hips. There's a small avalanche of highlighter pens and post-it pads off the edge of the desk.

"Oh God. Put it in me."

Elijah's eyes slide closed and his lips part, his breathing stilling for a second as he feels Billy press close. Billy pushes, just enough to set the head of his cock into the circle of muscle, and then stops. Elijah quivers anxiously.

"Billy, come on. Don't be mean," Elijah says, turning his head a little feverishly against the ruffled pages of his notes from yesterday's macroeconomics lecture.

"Oh, sweet, I'm sorry," Billy says in a rush of remorse, and he pushes in gently and steadily and Elijah arches and keens in pure bliss.

"Oh – God - _Billy_. Oh God yes please," Elijah begs, stretching his arms out and incidentally pushing his calculus book off the desk to thud onto the floor.

Billy starts to move in him, smooth strokes that go just fast enough to stave off some of Elijah's desperation but not deep enough to really assuage the need clawing in his guts. Elijah moans, pushing the rigid length of his own cock down so the head rubs against Billy's stomach.

"Beautiful," Billy says, working his hips in a lingering figure-of-eight that makes Elijah gasp sharply. "You're mah beautiful boy."

Elijah manages to smile, but then he screws his face up in a little snarl of delight.

"Oh – nice - _Billy_ \- more – I want it _more_."

"Give me yer hands."

Billy weaves his fingers between Elijah's and presses Elijah's hands down onto the desk, using the connection to brace Elijah against deeper thrusting and a quicker rhythm.

"Oh – fuck," Elijah laughs shakily, his toes curling and flexing behind Billy's head.

"Elijah."

"You - love me," Elijah says, every push of Billy's cock in his arse shoving the breath out of his body. "I can – feel it. I can – feel it – when you – fuck me."

"Is it good, love? Is it what you want?"

"Oh God. So good," Elijah breathes, looking up at Billy with brilliant eyes.

"Ah fuck – I'll not last like this."

"It's okay, it's okay," Elijah says, sliding one hand out from under Billy's and wrapping his fingers around his own cock again. "Come on, I want you to."

Billy's head falls back and his small mouth stretches into a silent 'oh' of delight and he just gives himself up to it. He rocks swiftly and smoothly in and out Elijah's tight but so slippery flesh, and Elijah's muscles squirm and shudder around him. Elijah keeps up the same quick light rhythm with his hand on his cock, laughing breathlessly at the exquisite trills of sensation chasing along his limbs and up his spine.

"Oh – fuck – baby – yeah," he gasps, his body juddering tightly around Billy's cock and his eyes flying wide and wild.

Billy squeezes his eyes tight shut and his face contorts as if in pain and Elijah catches at Billy's wrist and

"Yes … Billy … love … "

Billy's eyes, fever-bright, snap open and his mouth twists into a shocked smile and Elijah nods encouragingly and Billy shivers and shakes and Elijah feels him pulsing – cock and heart and breath and everything.

"Oh – fucking God," Billy marvels.

Elijah arches up, the tickle of Billy's semen in his arse suddenly the most powerfully erotic pleasure he can imagine, and his hand tightens on the head of his own cock.

"On you," he pants, already unfolding his legs from Billy's shoulder. Billy, flushed pink and laughing breathlessly, pulls his cock out of Elijah's ass with a wince at the spangles of pleasure still prickling his flesh.

Elijah sits up, winding his legs around Billy again and jolting himself forward to the edge of the desk. He slides his grip to the middle of his cock and rubs the red and wet slit backwards and forwards on Billy's stomach. Elijah cries out at the intensity of the sensation and Billy just has time to say

" … easy … "

and Elijah throws his head back and just screams and Billy laughs because Jesus everyone on this floor and the one below must know about Elijah and his cradle-robbing boyfriend and God Billy just wants them to know that Elijah's _loved_ and that it's this good for him.

"Oh _fuck_. Oh, fuck," Elijah pants, falling back onto the desk again as he gingerly removes his spunk-sticky hand from his cock. "Oh. Fuck."

Billy growls happily and leans down to rub his mouth against the hot damp skin of Elijah's throat. Elijah squirms a little and brings his mouth to Billy's. After a moment Billy pulls back enough to smile into Elijah's stunned, shining eyes.

"I'm goin' tah clean up a bit," Billy says. "An' then … I really should go."

"Okay," Elijah says gravely, but he manages a radiant smile for Billy when Billy finally forces himself to unwind from Elijah and shrugs his underwear and jeans back up onto his hips.

"I'll be a minute," Billy says, pulling his sweater back on and snagging one of Elijah's clean towels before going out to the bathroom on the next floor down.

Elijah strips his tee shirt off and uses it to mop up the mess on his belly and between his legs. He eases down off the desk, peels a torn half-page of "Money and Monarchy: British Imperialism from 1745 to 1945" off his ass, and tosses the used shirt into the laundry basket. He wanders over to Dom's suitcase, his attention caught by a familiar looking bit of gray and red fabric poking out where the two zippers meet between the handles.

"Hey. That's _my_ fucking shirt," he mutters irritably.

He tries to open one side of the zipper, but the tee shirt cotton's fouled on the teeth. He picks the case up and slings it on his bed, then goes to work on the zipper with more determination. After a couple of false starts he wrestles it open enough to free his shirt from it. He tries to just pull the garment out through the relatively small opening, but everything inside is tangled up together and he's forced to open the lid of the suitcase properly and haul on his shirt with both hands. The long shirt sleeves are woven in and through things right down to the bottom of the case, but Elijah gives a mighty yank and his shirt comes free, dragging with it two-thirds of the suitcase contents.

"Crap."

Elijah shakes his own shirt free and then starts scooping up everything else with the intention of stuffing it back in. He sticks his hand into the case to sort of level out what's there and –

\- the attaché case emerges from among the twisted legs of denim jeans and flopping arms of striped sweaters.

Elijah blinks.

Elijah reaches into the case and pushes aside the bits of clothing still half-obscuring the attaché case. He dumps the stuff in his arms back onto the bed. He puts his hand on the attaché case.

Elijah puts both hands on the attaché case and strips the zipper open. He licks his lips nervously.

Elijah cracks the cover of the case just an inch or two, and peers into the gap.

And drops the cover again.

Beat.

He lifts it open again.

And grins.

Cut.

"I do not fuckin' believe this," Billy scowls, his small mouth pulled in tight at the corners. "It's like, what? There's _another_ hundred grand doin' the rounds?"

"No, no way, it's the same one," Elijah, still buck naked, says. "I'd know it anywhere."

"A'right. I have no fuckin' idea what is goin' on, but I'm bloody well goin' tah find out," Billy says. "I'm takin' this back to Cate - _a-fuckin'-gain_ \- but she's not getting' it 'til I know what the fuck this is about."

Elijah pouts.

"You're really giving it back again? But … Billy. The money likes me. The money _wants to be with me_."

"Don't even start wi'meh," Billy says. "Get some clothes on yeh. I'll take this - "

he flips the attaché case closed and does up the zipper,

" – and you take the rest o'Dom's stuff teh Miranda's. And find out from Dom what the fuck he's up teh. How he got the money in the first place, how the _fuck_ he got it back again after I gave it to Cate."

Elijah nods. There's a broken-glass edge to Billy's green eyes and a sort of gathering energy about Billy's body that's both unfamiliar and strangely reassuring to Elijah.

"And Elijah?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't take any shite from him. You make him tell you the truth."

Elijah stares for a second, at this blade-thin razor-edged stranger he's in love with, and then nods again.

"Got it."

Cut.


	52. AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 46.5

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" Part 46.5** _

Okay, I know there's posted parts up to 47, but looking over the timeline I realized that I'd missed out the right chronological position for this bit of the story, hence the 46.5 header. No sex in this part, but heavy use of the F word, so you might need to be filter aware.

for [](http://littlegreenleaf.insanejournal.com/profile)[**littlegreenleaf**](http://littlegreenleaf.insanejournal.com/)

  
 _Jesus Christ._

The thing you have to understand is, health codes? They're not there to protect anyone's health. If that's what they were for, they'd say, like, Christ I don't know, you can't sell someone a steak with a fried egg on top, right? Am I right? Bet your sweet ass I am.

No, what health codes are, they're to make money for the goddamn health inspectors and the goddamn food suppliers and the goddamn lawyers who write up the laws. Damn right. No one gives a flying squirrel shit about someone's _health_ or how much it costs to run a decent business these days.

 _Artificial sweeteners._ They give people cancer, for Christ's sake. Anyone who's sitting in a bar, drinking alcohol, smoking cigarettes, and they order a steak with a fried egg on top and French fries, and then they want artificial sweetener to put in their coffee? Gimme a fucking break, man. _Christ_. You're giving yourself cancer, dumb-ass.

So what I'm saying is, if someone's drinking and smoking and eating steak and artificial sweeteners, a little bit of water isn't going to hurt them, right? Am I right? Bet your goddamn tooting I am.

So, hypothetically speaking, if Brad Dourif happened to be in the alley behind the Dove and Cross late one evening, unloading a dozen slightly water-damaged cartons of artificial sweetener packets from the back of his van, it wouldn't be like he was doing anything _wrong_ , okay? It's not like he was trying to sell them at full price, for Christ's sake. He discounted them the hell down. And the owner of the Dove and Cross, he's got a right to keep his overheads low if he can, right? Am I right? Bet your Aunt Fanny I am. They way they tax an honest businessman in this country is a crying shame. And it's not like anyone's getting hurt. _Jesus_. It's not like it's gonna give you _more_ cancer because it got wet sometime. And anyway, it's dry now.

So, what I'm saying is, if Brad was in that alley, and the lights outside the pub's back door happened to be off, because there's no reason for everyone to know every little thing about anyone's business is there, and if maybe when Brad heard a car pull into the alley, maybe he just sort of thought it would be a good moment to take a little breather and stay where he was in the half-dark beside his van … well then, it wouldn't be his fault if people get into a scene right there in front of him where he can see them, right? Am I right? Bet your Grandma's artificial hip I am. It's not like he was _trying_ to see what was going on. I mean, a man can stand up on the wheel well of his own van and sort of crane a bit to look over the roof, right? It's not a crime. It's still a free country, last time I looked.

You know what the Bible says, right? Don't judge a fisherman 'til you've walked a mile in his shoes.

 _Jesus._

  
 _Cut_

Cate's car is parked on the corner, just outside the alley that runs along the back of the Dove and Cross, so Billy pulls his car into the alley proper, and cuts the engine and lights. He climbs out, dragging the attaché case with him. Cate's out of her car in an instant, her high heels beating a sharp rap on the sidewalk as she strides to meet him.

"Give me that fucking thing," she snaps.

"No' a fuckin' chance," Billy says, swinging the case up and away from her. "No' until you tell me what the hell is goin' on around here."

Cate draws back, draws into herself.

"It's not your business, Billy."

"Oh, actually, yeh see, I think it fuckin' is," Billy counters. "Fer one thing, I've got the fuckin' money in meh hand. An' fer another, my ex-boyfriend an' my current boyfriend are in this thing up teh their collective balls, and I'm not inclined teh just step away. So come on, Catey, tell me what the fuckin' hell this is about."

Cate stares at Billy, but he stares back with just as much cold-eyed conviction.

" _Billy._ "

" _Catey._ "

"Damn it Billy," Cate snaps, tugging her gun out of her coat pocket and thrusting it out towards him. "Give me the fucking money!"

"No!"

Cate snarls, and lunges for the case. The grip of her gun strikes Billy on the shoulder, hard enough to make him grunt in pain. He stumbles, but he grabs at Cate's arm, pulling her off-balance too.

"Give the lady the attaché case," Hugo says very steadily.

Billy and Cate both whip their heads round to see Hugo standing just inside the alley, gun in hand.

"Who the fuckin' arse are you?" Billy demands.

" _Hugo_ ," Cate snarls. "What are you - "

"Hugo?" Billy echoes indignantly. "Where the fuck have you been? Bernard's been lookin' fer you."

Hugo's icily flat expression wavers ever so slightly. Cate takes advantage of Billy's momentary distraction to yank as hard as she can on the case.

"Fuck off," Billy cries, yanking back with equal fervor.

The case, its hardware simply not up to the standard of its other parts, abruptly flies open, spilling bundles of bank notes onto the ground.

"Fuck!" That's Cate.

"Bollocks." That's Billy.

"Jesus." That's Hugo.

Cate and Billy exchange a hard-eyed glare and both drop to their knees, grabbing up the money and throwing it back into the case. After a second's hesitation, Hugo stows his gun back inside his coat and kneels to help.

"Cate, please," Billy says, letting her take the refilled case and snap it closed. "I'm askin' yeh as a favor."

Hugo stands up again, brushing off the knees of his pants, but Cate and Billy remain on their knees, staring at each other.

"Your boyfriend's out of it," Cate says at last. "Don't worry about him. And Monaghan – whatever happens to him, he's brought it on himself."

"That doesn't make it any easier to accept," Billy says.

Cate stands, taking the case with her.

"Stay out of it, Billy," she says coldly.

"I cannae," Billy winces.

Cate turns on her heel and walks away, back to her.

"An' you, yeh fuckin' wastrel," Billy says to Hugo. "I'm Billy Boyd – the fuckin' eejit that's payin' yer wages, yeh know."

Hugo cocks an eyebrow, considering Billy as Billy climbs back onto his feet and slaps the dirt off his jeans.

"An' I suppose yeh're spendin' all yer time trailin' after her," Billy complains. "Well, go on, fuck off after her then, but don't think I'm payin' out good money for this kinda fuckin' service."

Hugo glances to the corner, where Cate's slinging the attaché case into the trunk of her car.

"Actually, yeh know what?" Billy says more thoughtfully. "Why don't yeh do that? Go after her, an' see where the fuck she's taking the money."

Hugo nods once and walks back out of the alley.

Billy leans against the side of his own car, sighing heavily and scrubbing his hand over his face until he hears the other two cars pull away, moments apart.

  
 _Cut_

Cate comes striding through the lounge of the Casino Club, wiping tendrils of hair off her face with both hands.

"Cate, darling, is everything all right?" Ian asks, glancing anxiously at the dirty smudges on Cate's knees, just under the hem of her suit skirt.

"No," Cate says. "Ian, I'm sorry, I didn't tell you before because I thought I could just fix it but I can't, it's like there's a bloody curse on me, or on that money. It's in the car, I'll take it to him _again_ but God Ian it's like the bloody cat that keeps coming back and it's not my _fault_."

"All right, slow down," Ian says, wide-eyed with worry. "What money? Take it to who?"

"The hundred and eleven grand for Dominic fucking Monaghan," Cate says, her features warping into something dangerously close to a sob. "I _cannot_ get that money to him. I've tried, but I just _can't_."

Ian's face smoothes, though there's something soft and injured in the line of his mouth.

"Dominic – doesn't have the money?" he asks very quietly.

" _No._ "

"He – never had the money?"

"No."

"Does he even know about the money?"

"I don't see how he would."

Ian steps back, his glance sliding aimlessly across the bar, the walls, the tables and couches that furnish the lounge.

"I'm so sorry Ian I - "

"It's all right, Cate," Ian says. "It's – quite all right."

"Look, I'm going to take it and just - "

"No," Ian says, just the slightest edge to his tone.

"No?"

"Just – bring the money back to me, and let's forget this ever happened, shall we?"

He looks at Cate, and she frowns a little.

"All right."

"Thank you. Now, why don't you take the rest of the evening off, darling girl? You look all in."

Cate sighs, and then smiles a little sheepishly.

"I'll bring the case up and … then I'll go home," she says.

"Good girl," Ian says.

When she walks away, Ian sits down on the nearest couch, staring off into the distance and very, very faintly smiling to himself.


	53. AU: Off the Ropes

_**AU: Off the Ropes** _

just kicking the tires a little. previous parts (all 40-some of them, lord help us) can be found [here](http://www.livejournal.com/users/maidazia/189523.html), thanks to [](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=maidazia)[**maidazia**](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=maidazia).

  
this is a patch that goes to the end of [Part 46.5](http://www.livejournal.com/users/abundantlyqueer/165193.html?mode=reply).

Cate goes out thorough the kitchens, out the metal door at the top of the fire escape and down the clackity stairs to the little yard that serves as a parking lot for the casino's employees. She jingles her keys in the cup of her palm, and thumbs the button on her car key when she's a couple of yards away from the trunk. She hears the locks snick softly; she reaches out, pressing the catch under the trunk lid. To her surprise, when she tries it, nothing happens. She thumbs the lock button on the key again, and the locks snick again, and this time the trunk opens without a problem. Which means –

\- she left it unlocked, and the first press of the button locked it, and the second opened it again.

Cate looks down, and it's not a shock, it's not even a surprise. It's almost – obvious.

The attaché case is gone. The trunk of Cate's car is as pristine and utterly empty as the day Ian handed her the keys with a Christmas bow around them.

Cate turns, looking around the yard in utter disgust.

"Hugo," she says out loud.

There's no answer, no movement, not even a shadow.

"Hugo! You lousy fucking bastard!" Cate yells. "I'm gonna fucking kill you!"

She clenches her fists and grits her teeth. A faint tickle on her right knee cap makes her look down.

Her stocking has sprung a ladder right up the front of her leg.

  
 _also_  
author's note re [the Karl/Orli ficlet 46.75](http://www.livejournal.com/users/abundantlyqueer/87477.html?mode=reply).

so, I wrote this for [](http://littlegreenleaf.insanejournal.com/profile)[**littlegreenleaf**](http://littlegreenleaf.insanejournal.com/)'s amusement, at a time when I was wasn't really on a roll with otr. and I realize now that's it just not canon – it talks about karl and orli becoming increasingly violent with each other in everything except sex, but it refers to the same period of time that's covered in [Part 44](http://www.livejournal.com/users/abundantlyqueer/76687.html?mode=reply), where they're playing around and laughing. and it's just plain wrong – I think that as time goes on, karl and orli become increasingly gentle and affectionate with each other in everything except _the ring_ , not the reverse. anyhow, I'm not going to take the ficlet down, since it was a gift for someone, but I'll attach a note that it's non-canon. okay? okay. good.


	54. AU: "Off the Ropes" ficlet (KU/OB)

_**AU: "Off the Ropes" ficlet (KU/OB)** _

For [](http://littlegreenleaf.insanejournal.com/profile)[**littlegreenleaf**](http://littlegreenleaf.insanejournal.com/), who's complaining about the Karl/Orli drought in "Off the Ropes".

It's true what they say, once you start you can't stop.

They gear up, gloves and gum-shields and head-guards, but they're doing more and more damage to each other every time they get into the gym together. At first, it was just at the end of a session, when their blood was up and their bodies were warm and the bruises came easily in skin that was already flushed and full. Now, it takes only minutes before they're clawing and shoving and snarling at each other, wiping a bloody nose on the back of a forearm or spitting red into a towel while tread-milling businessmen watch in envious horror.

And, for the last few days, it won't even stay in the gym. It's spilling out now, spilling over into almost every moment they're together. They can hardly stand to be together and not –

 _"Move."_

 _"You move," Orli snaps, shrugging a bare shoulder to purposely keep Karl from reaching his razor on the back of the sink._

 _"Jesus you scrawny fuckin' brat," Karl growls, shoving Orli from behind hard enough to make him stagger into the edge of the sink, his hipbone banging painfully against the porcelain._

 _Orli snaps his head back, catching Karl solidly in the face with the back of his skull._

Anger's burning in their palms, an itch under the skin that only the sting of hand striking flesh can alleviate. Their bodies yearn towards each other, hungry for the solidity of a punch, a kick, the sweet jar of the heel of a hand striking the bony tip of a chin. Karl shakes – literally shakes – every time Orli's within reach. Orli grits his teeth, breathes quick and shallow.

Bed's the only refuge. Naked, supine, the fury drains away without a trace. Karl's fingers move tenderly on Orli's face, skirting the faintly pink and swollen skin under Orli's eye. Orli's tongue tip traces Karl's lips, soothing the blood-lined split there.

They never say sorry, they never offer or ask forgiveness … not in words. But their bodies move gently against each other, languid, slow … even the crisis comes quietly now, reverently, a delicate shuddering relaxation.

"Maybe … we should stay away from each other," Orli whispers as Wednesday night turns into Thursday morning. "Before we go too far."

"We've already gone too far. Maybe we should just stay in bed," Karl smiles.


	55. AU "Off the Ropes" Part 47.

_**AU "Off the Ropes" Part 47.** _

  


It's broad afternoon when Bernard gets out of his car, hauls the three heavily laden grocery bags out the back seat, and walks up to the ground floor entryway of Miranda's flat. He leans on the doorbell and then waits, his glance flicking around and appreciating the neatly swept step and the few bits of geraniums in plastic pots clustered in one corner.

Keira opens the door, her narrow-eyed air of professional allure giving way to a big grin.

"Bernard!"

"Lady of the house about, is she?" Bernard beams back, steeping across the threshold as Keira moves back.

"Sure, hang on, I'll knock her up."

Keira leads the way down the hall. Bernard ducks into the kitchen and dumps the groceries on the table. He comes back out just in time to see Keira, having knocked, opening the door to the front bedroom.

Bernard catches a glimpse of Miranda, of the long copper fall of her hair hanging down the creamy curving breadth of her naked back. She moves aside, and there's the indolent sprawl of a man's limbs among a mess of sheets and tumbled pillows.

"Just a second," Miranda says, clearly enough for Bernard to hear it.

There's a flurry of pale blue silk as Miranda pulls a robe around herself. Keira moves away, further down the hall. Miranda comes out of the door, and her gaze meets Bernard's. Beyond her, the man on the bed sits up, rubbing his hands through his hair.

"Dom Monaghan," Bernard says blankly.

Miranda's expression tightens. She pulls the door closed behind her and crosses the hallway to the kitchen.

"Hallo, Bernard."

"Did he pay you?"

" _What?_ "

"Did he _pay_ you? Is that what that is? Business?"

"It's none of your fucking business what it is," Miranda says, shouldering past Bernard and wrenching the door of the refrigerator open.

"Jesus. Tell me you did it for the money," Bernard pleads, his face flushing darkly. "Tell me you did not just fuck that little piece of shite for nothing."

Miranda bangs a carton of orange juice down on the counter.

"Bernard, I'm not listening to this. It's none of your business who I fuck or why I fuck them or how I fuck them. We're not married anymore, remember?"

She shoves the carton away in disgust and stalks out of the kitchen, but Bernard, after a second's hesitation, goes after her.

"He's a walking fucking malediction," Bernard says, following Miranda all the way down the hall to the bathroom. "Jesus. Billy I could understand, but - "

"What the fuck are you talking about, _'Billy'_?" Miranda demands, turning in the bathroom doorway.

"I just meant … Billy's a good man, y'know? I, fuck it, I understand why yeh feel the way yeh do about him. I always got that part, Miran. But, Jesus, Monaghan? He's not worth it. McKellen's gonna hang him out to dry, and anyone mixed up with him is gonna get it, too."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Miranda asks, frowning. "About 'the way I feel' about Billy Boyd?"

Bernard hunches his shoulders and hangs his head.

"I just – Jesus – Miran. I knew you were in love with him. That yeh still are. That yeh wish you'd never let him go off like that."

Miranda lifts one hand to her hair, pulling the strands down the side of her face in a shielding gesture she's been trying to train herself out of ever since she was thirteen years old.

"Is that what you think? God Almighty. Why did you marry me, Bernard?"

"What? What kinda bloody question is that, woman?"

"If you thought I was in love with Billy Boyd, why did you marry me?" Miranda says again, her mouth twisting unpleasantly.

"Because I love you – _loved_ you. D'yeh think I gave a shit? Any fella with a hundred quid could have you. I didn't care. I didn't care that you loved him. Why wouldn't you? He's a sterling bloke. I was too old for yeh, too ugly. All I wanted was a chance to take care of you, be the one who had a right to put a fist through some fella's face if you said the word."

Miranda breathes shakily.

"Aw … for fuck's sake," she says gently.

"I'm sorry," Bernard says, his voice thickening. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"You should have said a bit more a bit sooner," Miranda counters.

"What can I say? I'm fucking stupid like that."

Miranda sighs and drags her fingers through her hair.

"Aw, Christ, Bernard."

Cut.

After another couple of go-rounds with Miranda, Dom's feeling more sanguine about things. Something will turn up; it always does.

He's comfortable where he is, naked in the damp tangle of the sheets, but the sound of raised voices suggests it might be prudent to get his clothes on, in case he has to beat a hasty retreat. Dom never met Miranda before last night – this morning, really, since he was so out of things last night – but he knows the sketchy outline of her history with Billy. And he knows Bernard well enough not to relish the prospect of being cornered by him.

Dom rolls off the bed and pulls his clean clothes on. He could use a wash, but he has no intention of putting himself any nearer the row taking place at that end of the flat. He scrubs his hands over his face, intrigued to find his beard has grown long enough to turn silky soft.

After hooking his boots on, Dom cracks the bedroom door open and peers out. Bernard's standing in the open doorway of the bathroom, with his back towards Dom.

Dom crosses the hallway in the opposite direction, nipping quietly into the kitchen to find his wallet and keys.

They're on the table, next to the grocery bags and half-hidden by the newspaper.

 _MMA welterweight fight back on amid illegal street-fighting controversy_ , reads the headline of the boxed item at the foot of the front page.

Dom grabs the paper, his fingers fisting around the edges of the newsprint and his breath stilling as he skims the few short columns. He almost rips the pages apart in his haste to flip the paper over to the back page.

 _Mystery challenger back in the fight after Association imposes ten thousand pounds fine_ , is the main headline.

 _Can Urban be beaten? (See story on page 24)._

 _Sean Bean: the boxing legend who turned to martial arts for kicks (contd on page 24)_.

 _Should MMA be banned? (Editorial on page 20)._

"Jesus bleedin' Christ," Dom laughs. "Game on. Game fucking on."

He bundles the paper up haphazardly, bits of its guts falling out and fluttering to the floor. He grabs his stuff, peers around the edge of the doorway to confirm that Bernard and Miranda are still out of the way, and scarpers off down the hallway and out the front door.

Cut.

Keira opens the front door ten minutes later to find Elijah standing on the step, looking very slight in his dark blue rain jacket, and a little breathless from lugging Dom's over packed suitcase.

"How old are you?" Keira demands.

"What?"

"Are you over eighteen?"

"What the fuck is this?" Elijah says.

Keira's glance falls on the suitcase.

"Well, it's not a bed and breakfast. Fuck off out of it, kiddo."

"I'm looking for Dom Monaghan," Elijah says, in lieu of what he really wants to say.

"Who? There's no fellas trickin' here."

"Wanna bet? Miranda's letting him stay here. We brought him over last night. He was sick, but if he's feeling better you can bet he's fucking somebody over for something."

" _Oh,_ " Keira says. "You mean the little blond guy with the big – yeah, he's here. Come on in."

She steps aside and Elijah hauls the suitcase over the threshold.

"He's around here somewhere … I think," Keira says.

Elijah ditches the suitcase just inside the door and follows her down the hallway, past an open bedroom door, to the kitchen.

Miranda's sitting at the table wearing a blue silk robe. Bernard's leaning awkwardly against the sink.

"Hi, Miranda," Elijah says.

"How the fuck old are you?" Bernard says.

"What? What the fuck is this?"

"Jesus, yeh're not old enough to know what it is, let alone be payin' for it," Bernard goes on.

"I'm a fifty-two year old midget," Elijah snaps.

"Bernard, shut the fuck up," Miranda says. "This is Elijah, Billy's boyfriend."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Elijah says triumphantly. "Now, where the hell's Dom?"

"He's not here?" Miranda asks in surprise.

"Apparently not."

"No, he's gone all right," Miranda sighs, pushing the wreckage of the newspaper aside. "His wallet and keys are gone."

"God fuckin' damn it," Elijah says.

His gaze falls on the crumpled front page, and his scowl smoothes a little.

"Shit. Well, okay, I don't know where he is now, but I know where to find him tomorrow night."

Miranda frowns questioningly and leans forward to look.

"Harton Gate boxing arena," Elijah says. "Orli's fight is back on."

Cut.


	56. AU: Off the Ropes. Part 48.

_**AU: Off the Ropes. Part 48.** _

this, and all the remaining parts of this story are dedicated to [](http://littlegreenleaf.insanejournal.com/profile)[**littlegreenleaf**](http://littlegreenleaf.insanejournal.com/). 'cos if i don't finish it, she'll hunt me down like a dog.

all the previous parts can be found in the fic index [here](http://www.livejournal.com/users/maidazia/189523.html), thanks to [](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=maidazia)[**maidazia**](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=maidazia).

"Hey," Craig says, tucking his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and trying to look conciliatory.

"Hello," David says, flipping closed the newspaper spread in front of him on the desk. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I was looking for Orli," Craig says, glancing down the narrow hallway to the back room of the gym.

"He's not here," David says.

"Oh. Well, really I was hoping to talk to his trainer. Sean Astin, right?"

"He's not here either," David says evenly. " _Craig_."

"Do I know you?" Craig winces.

"We met at a party a few years ago – the one where Dom Monaghan played show and tell with the host's collection of sex toys."

"Oh. Right. Em, you're - "

"David, David Wenham," David says. "I'm Sean's fella."

"Right. Damn, I'm sorry, I didn't remember - "

"Don't worry about it. I have an unusually acute memory for a good ass," David says dryly.

Craig flushes a little but sets his shoulders squarely.

"Look, I was just wondering if I could talk to - "

"Sean's not gonna tell you anything. And you'll be bloody lucky if he doesn't punch you the face while he's at it."

Craig shrugs uncomfortably.

"Shit, look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to - "

"So you ask me what you want to know, and I'll tell you."

"What?"

"I said, ask me, and I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

"Did I _miss_ something here?" Craig asks.

"I doubt it. Ask a question."

Craig hesitates for less than a second.

"Did Sean know Orli was an illegal fighter?"

"Yes. Next question."

"Why? Why would he do that – risk his own reputation for that?"

David smiles, leaning back in his chair.

"Because Sean Astin's the best fighter who never got a shot at an MMA title."

 _beep_

"Vig? It's Pete. So, I think I went a little crazy. I bought two tickets to the Urban Bloom fight on Friday night. Paid a scalper a hundred and twenty pounds each for them – that's eighty pounds over the face value. These things are going like gold-dust. I just – I have a hunch about this, Vig. I think it might be important for you to see the whole thing play out, y'know.

Oh. Also? I think I may have given Steve the impression that you could have a one page treatment of the plot with him by Saturday evening. So, em, working brunch on me on Saturday morning? Good, great. I'll get back to you later. Did I say this was Pete? It's Pete. Bye."

 _beep_

"Yeah, it's Boyd, talk teh me," Billy says, picking up the phone from the table just inside his front door.

"She did a drop with the money," Hugo says on the other end of the line. "Drove to the casino, left the car unlocked. The guy went straight to the car, took the case out, left. I followed him, of course."

"Don' tell me," Billy says. "Dominic Monaghan."

"No. Brad Dourif."

" _Who?_ "

"I was hoping you could tell me. As far as I can find out, he's a petty fence with an expensive ex-wife. Seems a little out of his league, with McKellen, I mean."

"Lemme get back teh yeh," Billy says. "I'm goin' teh talk teh Cate, whether she talks teh _me_ or not."

"What the fuck are you doing?" Cate snaps, opening the front door of her apartment just enough to give Billy a glimpse of tumbled blond hair, red-rimmed eyes, and a bulky white terry robe.

"Tha's my question," Billy says, slapping his hand flat on the door panel before Cate has a chance to shut it in his face. "Here. Have you been cryin'?"

"No," Cate says indignantly, sniffling and wiping the back of her hand across her nose as she turns her back on him and walks off down the hall.

Billy crosses the threshold, closing and bolting the door behind him before following Cate into the sitting room.

"Are you in trouble, Catie?" Billy asks.

Cate climbs onto the couch, tucking her bare feet under herself.

"No."

Billy huffs a weary sigh and sits down at the other end of the couch.

"Catie. I'm just tryin' teh … who's Brad Dourif, anyway?"

"Who?" Cate scowls.

Billy rolls his eyes.

"The guy you set up with a hundred and something grand in used notes, small denominations, no consecutive numbers," Billy says.

Something shutters down behind Cate's eyes.

"Let me get back to you," Cate says crisply, standing up and smoothing the collar of her robe across her collarbone. "There's something I need to take care of."

"What? No' a chance," Billy protests, getting up and going after her. "Yeh're no' brushin' me off again. I want teh know what the hell's goin' on around here. What's that money got teh do wi' Dom? If it's for this fella Dourif, how come Dom had it? Dourif's some small time rag-dealer. Even Dom's classier than that, an' that's sayin' something."

"I have to get dressed, Billy. Fuck off, would you?"

"No, I won't," Billy says, planting himself in the doorway of Cate's bedroom.

Cate shoulders her robe off, the thick terry cloth dropping to reveal the dazzling pale lines of her breasts and stomach and thighs.

" _Christ_ ," Billy says, clapping one hand over his eyes.

 _Jesus_. Call this a democracy? A _democracy_ means you can buy whatever you've got ready-money to pay for. An' if what you want to buy is a one-way ticket out of this fucking welfare state dictatorship, and you've got a fucking _suitcase_ full of money to pay for it, I don't see why you can't get on a plane tonight and go anywhere you fucking like. And I don't think it's anyone's business if you have a fucking valid fucking passport or not.

Do you know there's no amount of money _at all_ that'll get an American citizen a passport in under a fucking week in this country? It's not right. It's fucking un-American.


	57. AU: Off the Ropes

_**AU: Off the Ropes** _

  


Elijah abandons Dom's suitcase in Miranda's flat without a qualm. He's got no afternoon classes, and he's left with the dissatisfied letdown that comes from anticipating an argument for an entire night and half a day, and then having the whole thing come to nothing. He toys with the idea of going by the betting shop, but he knows Billy wants him safely out of the way until things get sorted. Liv's working, and Elijah's already intruded on her professionalism once this week. He thinks about dropping by Astin's gym, but Astin and Daisy and Orli are presumably deep into whatever esoteric preparations a fighter makes with only twenty-four hours left to the big bout.

Elijah ends up wandering along the riverside, chewing his nails and wishing he knew where the fuck Dom has disappeared to. It's not like there's a long list of people Dom can turn to, at this point. Billy would help him get out of London, but Dom's definitely not going to leave now, with the fight back on. Elijah's already sent Dom packing once; Dom's not likely to come looking for more. And for the first time, Elijah begins to suspect that the tight, discontented look Astin gets around the mouth when Elijah hangs out at the gym might have less to do with Elijah and more to do with Dom.

Only someone with inexhaustible reserves of kindness and good humor would take Dom in at this point. Someone strong enough and serene enough to just let Dom do his thing and still maintain their own emotional equilibrium.

Elijah grins.

"Orli."

Except that even Dom won't intrude on Orli's training. So –

"Orli's house."

 _Cut_

Elijah goes down the alley behind the row of little houses. The narrow wrought-iron gate isn't locked; the neighborhood kids know better than to take liberties with this particular scrap of backyard. Elijah lets himself in, and walks up to the back door. There's fairly hideous plaster frog crouched to one side, its green-painted skin crazing and peeling from years of weathering. Elijah crouches, and tips the frog over to one side. The concrete underneath is paler, and there's an even lighter key-shaped silhouette discernible. But no key.

Elijah grins.

He straightens up again and reaches for the doorknob. It turns; he pushes the door open and steps into the tiny kitchen.

"Dom?" he says.

There's the sound of something clattering on the table in the dining room.

"The fuck – Elijah?" Dom says, coming out into the hallway. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

"Well, you found me," Dom says, turning around and going back into the dining room. "What do you want?"

Elijah presses his lips together and hunches his shoulders inside his rain jacket. He follows Dom into the other room. Dom's slouched at the table, pushing a mug around on the shiny surface of the wood.

"I wanna know what the hell's going on with you," Elijah says evenly.

Dom flashes him a steely gray glance, surprised and a little irritated.

"It's none of your fucking business, Sweet Cheeks. You made it abundantly fucking clear that we were over. I don't have to tell you a damn thing anymore."

"Anymore?" Elijah protests. "You never fucking told me anything anyway, man."

"Jesus, what is this?" Dom scowls. "That fucking time of the month?"

Elijah flushes.

"Dom," he says. "Billy is trying very hard right now to stop you getting killed."

"Yeah. Billy's a real fucking saint," Dom sneers.

"Dom," Elijah says again, but this time there's a note of warning in his voice.

"Billy doesn't give a fuck what happens to me," Dom goes on. "He's a fucking coward. All he's worried about is, if Ian an' me are at each others' throats, he might get hurt in the cross-fire. He's a fucking pussy."

Elijah presses his fists down to the bottoms of his jacket pockets, lifting his shoulders tensely around his ears.

"I bet he's such a fucking pussy he lets you stick it to him, doesn't he?" Dom says, his mouth twisting snidely.

" _Shut up Dom!_ ," Elijah yells, yanking his right hand out of his pocket and shoving the gun in Dom's direction. "Just shut _the fuck_ up!"

"What the fuck?!? This isn't a fucking movie, Elijah, it's fucking _England_. You can't go around waving a fucking gun! Where the fucking hell did you get that?"

"None of your fucking business," Elijah snarls, thrusting the gun's muzzle close enough to Dom's face to make Dom lean back reluctantly. "You. Are a fucking _prick_. You're a smooth talker and a semi-decent fuck, and you think that gives you the right to shit on everyone you ever met."

"Aw, Lij - "

" _No._ Dom, Billy's the sweetest guy on earth and you broke his fucking heart."

"Yeah, news-flash Baby, _he_ left me."

"No, Dom. He's the one who finally packed his bags. You're the one that gambled his money and fucked his friends and abused his trust. You left him, you just didn't bother moving out."

"Ah for Christ's - "

"And what about the other guys you were fucking?" Elijah snaps. "How many of them were like Orli, huh? How many of them thought your boyfriend _knew_ , thought it was okay with him? Because what kind of fucking jerk would do that, would fuck his boyfriend's _friends_ if it wasn't okay?"

Dom grimaces, but doesn't answer.

"How the fuck could you do that to Orli?" Elijah goes on relentlessly. "Jesus, he's your _fighter_. He fucking relies on you, God help him."

Dom scowls, digging his thumbnail into the edge of the table.

"It was just a fuck, it wasn't - "

"Oh for God's sake, it's not the fuck I'm talking about. You let him think I knew; he felt like shit when he found out I didn't. And stop fucking up his Gran's table, he'll fucking kill you."

Dom yanks his hand back, shoves it into his hair.

"Look, it's gonna be fine," he says. "Orli's gonna kick Urban's arse into next week and when I get my winnings I'll - "

"I don't fucking care about your winnings," Elijah says. "I don't fucking care if you end up pissing into a gold pot or McKellen throws you off the end of a pier. I don't care, Dom, I just _don't fucking care_ anymore. Billy never expected to get a cent of his money back from you, and I don't know where the fuck this is all gonna come out, but so help me God if you have the means to pay him back and you don't, I'm gonna fucking come after you, Dominic Monaghan."

"Lij," Dom says with undisguised appeal in his voice.

"No, just don't try to fucking get around me. I've had enough of your bullshit."

Elijah tilts the gun up and away, and puts it back into his jacket pocket.

"Tell Orli I said 'good luck'," he says.

He turns, walking as far as the doorway before turning back.

"An' y'know what?" he demands. "Another thing – you were a _bad fucking boyfriend_."

And then he really is gone, slamming the back door hard enough to rattle the glass do-dads on the electric chandelier hanging over the table.

Dom drops his head into his hands, digging his fingers into the front of his hair, and huffs out a deep sigh.

"Fucking women," he mutters.

 _Cut_

A/N: no, you didn't miss part 48; I'm having timeline issues. The next part posted with be 48, which should patch up the bits I missed earlier, and then we'll be straight. So to speak.


	58. Off the Ropes 50 (this part DM/VM NC-17).

_**Off the Ropes 50 (this part DM/VM NC-17).** _

the non elijah/billy parts of Off the Ropes are dedicated to [](http://littlegreenleaf.insanejournal.com/profile)[**littlegreenleaf**](http://littlegreenleaf.insanejournal.com/). (the elijah/billy stuff belongs to [](http://aprilkat.insanejournal.com/profile)[**aprilkat**](http://aprilkat.insanejournal.com/).)

Viggo doesn't notice evening closing in, the light in his little study dimming until the screen of his computer is radiant in the gloom. He doesn't notice the ache in his hands as he tries to make his limping three-fingered typing style keep pace with the torrent of words tumbling from the inside of his head. He doesn't bother to delete and retype, not even when he realizes an entire sentence has taken a wrong turn; he just shakes his head sharply, his hair brushing into his eyes, and rattles out the right words, letting them stand as an addendum to the wrong ones.

The sound of the front-door bell makes him lift his head, peering into the sudden darkness, scowling in confusion.

The second peal of the bell brings him back to himself enough to set the keyboard aside and stand up, wincing as his joints pull out of their long-locked position. Viggo double saves his document, wipes his hand over his face, and goes to open the door.

"Hey," Dom says, lifting his head but not enough to stop his gray-eyed gaze coming from under the thick fringe of his eyelashes.

Viggo, standing barefoot on the threshold, can only stare.

Dom looks –

Dom's eyes are somehow dark and vivid and red-rimmed all at once, and Viggo's first thought is that he's _on_ something.

Dom's face is pale, his cheeks shadowed by a dark scruff of unshaved beard. His lips are reddened, almost chafed looking. He flicks his tongue out, glossing spit over the dry skin as if he can feel Viggo's glance there.

"Can I come in?" Dom says, his mouth already curling into a slow smile.

Viggo's eyes widen slightly; he's half-sure Dom can't come in unless invited. Viggo's somehow too aware of his own heartbeat, his own breathing, the surge of his own blood in his veins. And at the same time, every particle of his awareness seems to be pulling restlessly towards Dom, Dom's skin and eyes and the sugary-smoky smell of Dom's breath.

Viggo stands to one side, and Dom uncoils and steps into the hallway.

"Are you okay?" Viggo asks.

Dom glances at him from the corners of his eyes, smiling, and wanders away. He looks over the walls and furniture and floor as if he's never seen them before. He strokes his fingers along the back of an armchair, thumbs the corner of a table. When Viggo follows him into the sitting room, Dom turns, and Viggo's heart stutters again at the sheer heat of whatever it is that's burning behind Dom's eyes.

"It's almost nine," Dom says.

He's coming back to Viggo, his steps silent on the bare wooden floorboards. Viggo resists the urge to bolt.

"Twenty-four hours to go," Dom breathes, taking hold of a fistful of Viggo's untucked shirt. "Twenty-four hours and Orlando's going to make me king of this fucking town."

"Dominic," Viggo says, his brows furrowed into a deep-lined frown. "This is - "

"No it isn't," Dom says, baring his teeth in what may be intended as a smile but comes off more like a snarl. "You don't have the first fucking idea what it is, _Professor_."

Viggo flushes, feels the heat of his blood high up on his cheekbones. Dom shoves against him, pushing the hardness of his cock into Viggo's lean thigh.

"Fuck you," Viggo husks. " _Fuck you._ "

"Yeah," Dom growls, and his lower body does a quick-shimmy slow-grind against Viggo that makes Viggo's breath slam in his chest.

Viggo grabs Dom by the shoulders – Dom's compact, denser with muscle than he looks – and the both reel off-balance and someone stumbles and they both fall onto the couch, hard enough that there's a second of elbows and ribs and Viggo makes a noise that's just exasperation and discomfort.

"You need to calm down," he says, half to himself, and pushes up onto his hands to give Dom enough room to breathe.

"I can't," Dom grins, winding arms and legs around Viggo like tentacles. "I don't want to."

"This is fucking crazy," Viggo says, even as he yields to the strength of Dom's thighs around his hips and lets himself down onto the uneasy shift and hitch of Dom's chest. "I don't do this."

"Yes you do, yes you do," Dom says, and the fact that the words are blowing flame-hot against Viggo's ear and jaw is probably proof enough.

Viggo's hands go crazy, declare their independence, go pulling at Dom's shirt-tails and burrowing up into the super-heated space between cotton and skin. Viggo's mouth tips and covers Dom's, smothers the fevered stream of profanities from Dom's lips.

Dom's squirming the writhing, his hands rough on Viggo's clothes. There's the harsh sound of cotton actually tearing – Viggo's not sure which of them that was. Viggo manages to get some minimal amount of buttons open and zippers down, and the abrasion between their bodies is about equal parts skin and sweat and clothing catching and rubbing irritatingly.

"Come on," Dom crows, wrenching his mouth from Viggo's. " _Come on_. I wanna feel you go fucking _wild_ , man."

Viggo feels a flash of heat in his chest, in his belly, and it's as much anger at himself at Dom at everything as it is desire.

"Shut up, shut the fuck up," Viggo grinds, his long strong fingers twisting in Dom's hair, dragging Dom's head aside, half-hiding Dom's face against the back of the couch and wholly exposing the taut line of Dom's throat. Viggo kisses the skin, feels the tang of salt and soap explode on his tongue. Dom's cock is rubbing a smear of pre-cum on Viggo's stomach. Viggo's own cock is pushing blindly and brutally into the crotch of Dom's pants where they're bunched a little between his legs.

"Yeah, come on, come on man," Dom mutters, his eyes squeezing shut.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" Viggo says, pushing his right hand down into the crush of heat between their bodies, squeezing the hardness of Dom's balls.

Dom arches, mouth open, spine bowing up from the couch despite Viggo's weight pressing down on him.

"Come on, fuck it, fuck it all, _fuck me_ ," Dom gasps. "You know you want to."

Viggo shoves with his hips, twitches his grip on Dom's balls.

"What the fuck are you doing to me, Dominic?"

Dom's eyes flash fire.

"Giving you a little taste of chaos, Vig. It's good, isn't it?"

The question hangs on the air, tatters into ash, while Viggo stares into Dom's face. Dom's expression hardens, chills.

"Fuck you," he mutters at last, and this time it's a fistful of Viggo's hair that he twists in his hand.

Viggo hisses in pain, uses the breadth of his hand to force Dom's face to the side again. The muscles of Dom's neck slide under Viggo's teeth; Dom's flesh feels dense and smooth. Dom groans loudly, his hands clutching and caressing over Viggo's angular shoulders.

Viggo's not at all clear on how they end up getting Dom's boots and socks and pants off – somehow dragging clothes from between their bodies without ever easing up on the cursing curling thing they make together. Viggo's even less clear on how why when he drags Dom up off the couch and pushes him upstairs to the bedroom.

Dom whines, angry at the delay, or the complication of a bed and sheets and pillows.

"Shut up," Viggo snaps, though Dom hasn't really _said_ anything. "Just shut up."

Viggo shoves, and Dom falls onto the bed and pulls Viggo with him. Viggo's hands are all over Dom's body, all over the haphazard angles and heaving curves.

"Get over, roll over," Viggo says breathlessly, and Dom squirms over onto his stomach, spreading his bare legs and exposing the dark cleft between his buttocks.

Viggo yanks at the drawer of the nightstand so hard that he pulls it right out of its tracks and every damn fucking piece of junk in there cascades out onto the floor. Viggo reaches down, swipes a couple of pill bottles and his sunglasses out of the way and grabs the lube.

"Come on, come on," Dom's humming, his ass hitching restlessly.

Viggo fumbles lube on his fingers, on the sheets, between the cheeks of Dom's behind. Dom growls, burying his face against his folded forearms and pushing back against Viggo's fingers.

Dom's body yields, scorching and soft - _needy_ \- and Viggo fumbles again and shifts and pushes his cock into Dom's body.

Viggo shoves Dom's unbuttoned shirt high up on is back, and scoops an arm under Dom's stomach, pulling him onto his knees. The change of angle drives a yell of shock and satisfaction from Dom's open mouth.

Dom's shaking and shuddering, making sounds like sobs. Viggo can't tell exactly when Dom comes; it's only the gradual falling away in the intensity of Dom's struggles that tell him Dom _has_ come. Viggo keeps going, keeps the same pitch and pressure with each shove of his hips even though Dom's folding down onto his hands and knees, making hoarse little sounds of satiation.

Viggo's orgasm is sharp and sweet, strong enough to wipe the inside of his head clean for long moments, dark red, no sound but the buzz of his blood in his brain.

He comes back to himself, pressed full-length on Dom's prone body. Viggo peels away; Dom groans, and shivers. Viggo rolls over, pushes slowly onto his elbows.

"It's okay to be afraid," he says, and his voice is shattered, rawer than it's ever been before. "Everyone is."

Dom lifts his face from the pillows. His eyes are red, but his cheeks are dry.

"Not everyone," he says.

He gets on his hands and knees, gets off the bed. Viggo's memory stutters; he more than half-expects Dom to look back at him, to smile at him with Orlando's easy good-humor. Dom goes into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.


	59. "Off the Ropes" Part 52. (KU/OB, NC-17)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> parts 48-51 of "Off the Ropes" have not been posted yet. I couldn't get the juice going for this story for a while, and hopefully this will jump start me again. I'll go back and do the missing parts before I go on any further; there's nothing in those chapters that relates to Karl and Orli, so you're not missing anything with regard to this strand of the story. This takes place the night before the fight. You can find links to all the previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/users/maidazia/189523.html#cutid1), thanks to [](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=maidazia)[**maidazia**](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=maidazia).

_**"Off the Ropes" Part 52. (KU/OB, NC-17)** _

Note: parts 48-51 of "Off the Ropes" have not been posted yet. I couldn't get the juice going for this story for a while, and hopefully this will jump start me again. I'll go back and do the missing parts before I go on any further; there's nothing in those chapters that relates to Karl and Orli, so you're not missing anything with regard to this strand of the story. This takes place the night before the fight. You can find links to all the previous parts [here](http://www.livejournal.com/users/maidazia/189523.html#cutid1), thanks to [](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=maidazia)[**maidazia**](http://www.insanejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=maidazia).

For [](http://littlegreenleaf.insanejournal.com/profile)[**littlegreenleaf**](http://littlegreenleaf.insanejournal.com/).

"It's late," Karl says quietly, coming to stand in the doorway and watch the blue-ghost flicker of the television reflecting on Orli's bare skin. "You should go home. Get some sleep."

Orli shifts, shadows running together in the hollow of his flank, light glowing on the point of his hipbone.

"If I go … it'll be tomorrow."

"You don't want it to come?" Karl asks, moving into the room.

Orli watches him with wide dark eyes.

"I'm not … I'm not ready."

Karl sinks to his knees and down onto his heels next to the couch. His hand, without any instruction from him, conforms to the narrow curve of Orli's shin, and traces back up against the growth of fine silky hair.

"You're ready for this fight," Karl says. "You couldn't be more ready."

Orli shakes his head, drawing Karl's gaze to his face.

"I don't mean the fight. I mean … I'm not ready for tonight to be over."

Karl kneels up, leaning over Orli.

"We've got nothing to be afraid of, baby, nothing."

Orli's eyes narrow and his hands run quickly up Karl's naked sides.

"Again," he breathes. "I need you again."

"Jesus," Karl whispers, but he's already leaning in, dipping his lips against the opening heat of Orli's mouth.

Orli's hands move down again, down to the warm nest of hair around the root of Karl's cock, and around the thickening base of his shaft.

"You want it too," Orli breathes shakily, his eyelids flickering half-closed so that his eyes are hidden behind the sooty blur of his eyelashes.

"Yes, yes."

Orli's fingers enclose the head of Karl's cock, rubbing foreskin against glans with a steady, inexorable rhythm.

"Fuck, fuck," Karl says, running his tongue over his lips. "Not here. I want you in bed this time."

Orli's hand slows, reluctantly stops.

"Come on," Karl says, unfolding onto his feet and extending his hand. "Come to bed with me."

Orli sits up and then stands, his long limbs bathed in the screen light. He steps closer to Karl, and there's a fever-heated glancing of skin on skin.

"Not here," Karl says again, as much to himself as to Orli.

He takes hold of Orli's hand tightly, fingers flexing hard against the dense curve at the heel of Orli's thumb, feeling the bones and sinews shift beneath the pressure. They walk naked through the apartment, up the couple of steps that separate the kitchen and dining area from the bedroom and bathroom.

The bedroom door is lying open. They pass through, letting it stay like that.

The lights are off in the bedroom, but there's enough yellowed light-spill from the street to show the bed. The sheets are three-quarters on the floor, as are all but one of the pillows. That's lying right in the middle of the mattress, squashed into a suggestive arch.

Karl shudders in a deep breath as Orli moves past him, crawling up onto the bed.

"I can smell you in here," Karl says. "The air's full of you … full of my fucking you."

Orli's on his hands and knees, spine curved in blatant display.

"Karl."

Orli pushes back on his haunches, thighs spread, his lean buttocks pulled taut. He lets his shoulders sink until he's on his elbows, head bent down almost to the surface of the bed.

Karl's breathing quickly, almost painfully. He gets onto the bed, shifting to kneel behind Orli. He can feel the air – chill with the sharp cold of pre-dawn – scouring in and out of his nostrils and mouth. His own breathing is too loud in his ears. He reaches out, his fingertips dipping into the corona of heat around Orli's body.

"Do you need - ?"

"I don't need anything except you," Orli says, and his whole body unfurls, up and back, his arms coming up as he arches his spine.

His arms slide back around Karl's neck, and Orli's chin tips up, the angle awkward with Orli facing away from him. Their kiss is off-kilter, incomplete, hot and wet and messy. Karl smears his hands down Orli's tight belly, into the sticky stiff curls of hair between his legs. When Orli says he doesn't need anything, it's a simple statement of fact. They're both slippery sweet with a heady mess of semen and sweat and lube. Karl cheats his hands back over Orli's hipbones, down the small of his back, and between the cheeks of his behind. Everything's wet and warm and welcoming. Karl bites on his lip, fingertips delving a little deeper.

Orli twists, hip first, pulling himself away from Karl's touch.

"No. Your cock. Just your cock."

Karl has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle the snarl filling his mouth. He knees in closer, taking hold of his cock and pushing it without preamble between the cheeks of Orli's behind, rubbing it roughly backwards and forwards a couple of times until he's set firmly against Orli's opening and then pushing slowly but strongly in.

Orli's body yields with only the slightest hesitation. Orli groans, his fingernails dragging on the back of Karl's hand where Karl has wrapped his arm around Orli's waist.

"Baby, baby," Karl says soothingly, though in truth he knows to the last particle what Orli's tolerance is, just how much past too much Orli can take and still come clawing at Karl for more.

"Nn … good," Orli pants. "Move now, come on."

"Always so fucking hungry, aren't you?" Karl murmurs against the curls surrounding Orli's left ear. "Never satisfied, never finished."

"Oh God," Orli says, as Karl starts to move inside him, slow stuttery strokes at first, but quickly smoothing and lengthening into a long pulling deep pushing tidal motion.

"You're so fucking amazing," Karl goes on, the words less important than the way his breath beats hotly against the stretched-tight tendons of Orli's neck. "You're everything I ever wanted, everything … "

"Oh _God_ ," Orli cries, his body quivering as he struggles to stay upright on his knees despite the ferocity of Karl's hip-snap thrusts.

"I love you," Karl growls, both hands closing tight on Orli's shoulders, keeping him pinned back against Karl's stomach. "I fucking love you."

Orli jags out a shattered sound of desperation, and they slide apart, slide together, skin slick and burning. Karl's cock comes free and Orli twists around, wrapping his arms tight around Karl's neck and their mouths slide and then lock together. Fingers skitter on wet skin and they press chest to chest, hips to hips. They tip, one hand outstretching to ease their weight down onto the bed. Orli's inner thigh grazes the bellied curve of Karl's biceps; Karl's thumb presses into the hollow behind Orli's knee.

"In me, I fucking need you in me," Orli hisses.

Karl places himself, then drives down with a single stab of his hips. Orli arches, yelling.

"Ah – oh fuck, fuck!"

Karl drops his head and licks wet stripes over Orli's neck and around his ears.

"Tell me you love me," Orli snarls, one hand curling close around Karl's stubbled skull. "Tell me you fucking love me again."

"I love you, I love you."

Orli laughs, a wild sound that degenerates into a gasping groan as Karl braces himself on both hands and starts to fuck Orli with savage jabs of his hips. Orli gets his hand to his own cock and pumps fast. He's gasping and whimpering and struggling under Karl with complete abandon.

"Obi, baby," Karl whispers, fists clenched on Orli's thighs, brow furrowed down tightly.

Orli lets out a sharp wavering cry, his whole body shaking as he orgasms, his come falling back into the hollow of his stomach between his hipbones.

"Oh God," he says breathlessly, "love you, love you so fucking much."

Karl fumbles for Orli's hands, twisting their fingers up tight together, and setting his weight on their joined hands. It takes him only a minute more to finish, rocking hard and fast into the sweet-easy grip of Orli's body until he comes apart in a slow sweet strong spasm that echoes and reechoes through his body until he shivers all over and Orli laughs lazily.

Karl lifts his head, and realizes he can see too much of Orli's face; he can see the separate strands of Orli's eyelashes, and the tiny pock marks above his right eyebrow where he was stitched up a few years ago. He can see the little flakes of gold that lighten Orli's dark brown eyes.

It's dawn.

"We're out of time," Karl whispers.

"Let me go," Orli says softly.

Karl unrolls from him, their bodies coming apart with painful reluctance.

Orli gets up and goes into the bathroom. Karl hears the cabinet opening, and then the drawers next to the sink, and things being rifled through. Then silence for long enough that Karl pulls himself together and gets off the bed. His legs feel shaky.

He walks to the bathroom door, which is slightly ajar, and pushes it further open.

Orli is sitting on the floor, his back against the side of the tub. The scissors in his hand gleams coldly under the harsh light.

"You don't have to do this," Karl says, though the dark shining spill in Orli's lap is proof that's he's already done it.

"I want to," Orli says, lifting his face to look at Karl with eyes that have turned narcotic with love and lust. "Help me."

Karl comes to him and kneels down, taking the scissors from him. Orli leans in, tipping his head toward Karl. Karl digs his fingers deep into the coolly silky strands where they still clothe the left half of Orli's skull, and then he thrusts the scissors blades counter-wise along his fingers, and shears through the thick locks. The strands fall in a soft cascade over his wrist.

It's morning, gray but true, by the time they've done with the scissors and then the razor. Orli's narrow skull is shaded by a close stubble of dark bristle; his curls lie shattered on the floor.

"Twins," Orli says, as they consider themselves in the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet.

"It's really time," Karl says very softly. "We need to sleep."

"I don't want to go. I don't want to be away from you."

"I didn't say that," Karl says, turning from the mirror to look at Orli directly. "I said sleep."

Orli nods. They go back to the bedroom. Karl pulls the sheets back up onto the mattress while Orli tosses the pillows from the floor onto the top of the bed. They lie down, their bodies falling into the perfect placement they've learned night by night in each other's arms.

"I love you," Orli says, his eyes already flickered closed.

"Twins," Karl says, brushing his lips against Orli's forehead in the last few seconds before he unravels into sleep.

Cut.  



	60. repost -- Off the Ropes, spoilers for end of series

_**repost -- Off the Ropes, spoilers for end of series** _

  


otr

  
"He's not answering his phone," Astin says, flipping his cell closed.

"He's probably sleeping," David says, coming to sit next to him on the bench.

"He's probably starting a fight with a couple of bikers carrying flick knives, in an alley behind a bar somewhere."

David shrugs and smiles slightly.

"Well, that'll help get his head right for tomorrow too."

Astin tosses his phone aside and digs both hands into the front of his hair, thick taupe-brown strands standing up between his splayed fingers.

"I'm going fucking nuts," he says. "How am I supposed to last until tomorrow evening?"

"You need to relax," David says, putting one broad hand on the back of Astin's neck.

Astin makes a breathy sound of sour amusement.

"Seems like that's what you've been saying since the day you met me."

"Pretty much," David says, pressing his thumb into the thick triangle of muscle where Astin's neck joins his right shoulder. "It took me a while to figure out how to make it happen, though."

Astin glances sideways, lips parted, and David's already leaning in, leaning down to put his lips to Astin's. Astin clutches at David's tee shirt, knuckles pressing against the unyielding planes of David's chest.

There's a long silence, or near silence – the slight click of tongues and lips, the whisper of David's fingers through Astin's hair, the slight rustle of clothing as they each turn to face each other more fully. David pulls back, thumbing a faint gloss of saliva from Astin's lower lip.

"Let me take care of you," David says, his voice low and warm. "Let me make you feel good."

Astin tips his head to one side, his smile equally off-kilter.

"Daisy Mae," he says. "You're the only one there's ever been for me."

"I know," David says. "Come on, stand up."

He tugs Astin to his feet, and gently peels his tee shirt off over his head. Astin hums, letting his head roll loosely from side to side on his neck, feeling the air on his bare skin.

\---

  
"Alright, that's it," Liv says through gritted teeth.

She takes the half-step that separates her from Dom, and gets hold of him by two fistfuls of jacket front.

"Listen up, bozo," she says, "if so much as one atom of the shit you're in gets on Craig, I am gonna personally reach down your throat and pull your balls out past your weird-ass English dentistry. Do not mess with me, Dom, or I'll unload every smothered bad impulse of a lifetime spend trying to be sweet onto you."

Dom, forced by Liv's superior height to tilt his head back to lock stares with her, can only fumble his lower lip up and down without hooking it on an actual word.

"Do I make myself crystal clear, Dom?" Liv persists.

"Yeah," Dom says breathily, "yeah."

"Okay then," Liv says, letting go of him and smoothing the front of his jacket carefully. "Okay. Go out there and tell Mister Rhys Davies that Craig had nothing to do with any of this, okay?"

"Ah come on," Dom protests, "if JR sees me, he's gonna kill me. He holds me responsible for turning the title fight into a bleedin' soap opera."

"You are responsible."

"Oh there's no talking to you bloody women," Dom says.

"Dom," Liv grinds, "balls?"

She makes a menacing flexing motion with one sinuous hand.

"Alright, alright," Dom says. "You'll be sorry when I'm dead, though."

"Yeah, I'll be out of pocket for a red dress to wear to your funeral," Liv says, shoving him towards the door.

"I'm goin' I'm goin'," Dom grumbles.

When Dom's gone, Liv takes a minute to smooth her eyebrows and run her hands over her hair and down the front of her dress before leaving too.

  
\---

  
"I'm gonna fucking kill you," Astin yells, twisting in David's restraining arms.

Karl's glaring black death at him, but it's Orlando who shoulders his way between them.

"Take a fucking ticket an' get in line," he snarls.

"You – you get in the fucking ring," Astin says, his top lip curled back from his teeth. "Get in the fucking ring."

For a long beat they just stare at each other, both flushed and hard-eyed and sweating. Orli throws one strapped hand up in disgust and turns away, swinging himself up onto the ropes and into the ring. Karl shrugs Bean's hand off his shoulder and follows.

"Jesus," Astin says, covering his face with hand. "That's it. We are fucking dead meat; we might as well shoot ourselves now."

David, shifting the emphasis of his arms around Astin from a hold to a hug, glances up at the ring. The referee, looking slightly shaken, brings the two fighters into the center of the ring. They bow sketchily to each other, take up their position with their right hands laid back to back. The referee retires to one side of the ring.

The crowd settles slightly, but not by much. Two fighters meeting for the first time will spend the first two or three rounds just sizing each other up, getting a feel for the other man's rhythms. They'll take it easy, faint and parry, without any real sense of urgency.

The first round bell rings.

Karl and Orli explode, four hands smacking and twisting and grappling. Orli snaps his knee high; Karl blocks it with his elbow and has to dodge aside to escape the follow-up punch.

The crowd falls silent, so that the only sounds in the entire arena are the crack of flesh on flesh, harsh exhalations, the squeak of a bare foot on canvas as Orli pivots in a roundhouse kick that Karl avoids by a hair's breadth.

Astin, peering through his splayed fingers, nudges David in the ribs.

"Is that – are they – I don't know what's going on," Astin murmurs plaintively.

"What the fuck is going on?" Dom snaps, skittering to a halt just short of running straight into Astin and David.

"What the bleedin' good God are you doin' here?" Bean demands.

"I'm – oh," Dom says, his righteous indignation collapsing into dismay as he recognizes Bean.

"Dominic," Bean says.

Dom grins weakly.

"Dominic Monaghan," Bean goes on. "You're the bleedin' missin' manager, aren't you?"

Dom grins again, with equal lack of conviction.

"You bloody - whore-monger," Bean says.

Astin takes his hand away from his face to look at Dom.

"What – did you – did he - Jesus Christ Dom," Astin blurts. "What are you fucking on?"

The bell rings, and the crowd erupts into applause. Orli and Karl break away from each other and head for opposite corners of the ring. Astin shakes David off, going to Orli's corner with a water bottle and towel.

"I'll see you later," Bean sneers at Dom, turning away to attend to his own fighter.

Viggo, completely out of breath and still clutching Liv's dress in its flimsey plastic cover, strides down between the seats to where Dom and David are standing.

"What did I miss?" Viggo asks.

The bell for the second round rings.

"Sit down and shut up," David says.

"Hey - " Dom says.

David turns on him, grabbing him by a fistful of his gorgeous silk tie.

"Monaghan," David says evenly. "So help me God, if you fuck up one more time, I'm gonna pound you into the fucking ground. Now sit down and shut up."

David shoves Dom off and turns around again, giving Viggo and Dom the blank width of his back. Dom grimaces, and smoothes his tie, but he goes to the end of the row of seats and sits down.

Viggo glances up at the ring.

It's like seeing the sky fall, or the ground open, or something. It can't be real, and yet it's all too realistic. Orli lands a sweet punch right across Karl's jaw, and Karl's face snaps to the side. Orli backs fast, but not fast enough and Karl sweeps his feet out from under him. Orli hits the floor, flips over one shoulder and springs back up, but he's not steady enough to block when Karl's heel clips his across the mouth. There's a splatter of red-tinged saliva as Orli stumbles and then rights himself. He jerks his head to the side and spits around his mouth-guard. He looks satisfied, somehow. He and Karl glare each other, black-eyed and vivid.

cut

Elijah takes the stairs up to Cate's apartment so fast he almost wipes out on the turn of the landing, but he manages to herd his momentum in the general direction of the doorway. He slams shoulder first against the door, both hands gripping his gun. The door's not locked – it catches slightly on the latch and then crashes open, spilling Elijah into the hallway.

Hugo, just about to stow the mud-stained attaché case in the bottom of Cate's closet, straightens up.

Elijah glances into the living room and the kitchen but they're deserted. He runs for the bedroom, stamping to a halt when he sees Hugo standing on the other side of the bed, his right hand inside his coat pocket.

"Don't even," Elijah snaps, swinging his own gun up and pointing it at Hugo.

Hugo's eyebrows angle upwards.

"I'd really prefer you - "

"Shut up!" Elijah says, flicking a spilt-second glance at the attaché case on the bed. "Just give me my fucking money."

Hugo's eyebrows look like they're trying to make a break for freedom.

"Your money?"

"Yeah, well, possession is ninety-nine hundredths of the law or something," Elijah says, coming nearer to the bed.

He takes one hand from the gun to grab at the handle of the attaché case and drag it towards him.

"You know," Hugo says tightly, "under other circumstances, I'd take the greatest pleasure in making you wear that gun as a fucking hair-bow."

Elijah, the attaché case firmly in his grip, grins and shrugs.

"Yeah well, under other circumstances I don't think I'd have the balls to try to hijack a hundred and eleven thousand pounds at gunpoint, so … "

Hugo's ice-cold expression creases very slightly.

"McKellen's not giving that money away," Hugo says.

"It's okay," Elijah says. "He's not giving it to me – he's buying something."

Hugo frowns, not even trying to disguise his confusion. Elijah tips the gun up, into a less threatening posture.

"Thanks," he beams.

He turns, scrambling out of the room as crazily as he bundled in.

cut

Karl and Orli have a rhythm now – sharp-handed attacks that they block with forearms and shins, the impacts hard enough to drive their breath out a harsh grunts. They match each other move for move, block for attack, for long twisting sequences of seconds and then bam one of them fucks up by a split second or a hair's breadth and takes a solid punch or a kick. Orli's mouth is smeared red around his mouth-guard, and there's a dark purple shadow forming on his right cheekbone. Karl's nostrils are rimmed with blood, and the tip of his chin bears a deep red imprint of Orli's sharp elbow.

The crowd is stirring, collective gasps rippling in response to a particularly brutal kick of Karl's that doesn't land, and one of Orli's that does. Here and there people are standing up.

"Come on, Karl," someone yells.

"Bloom – come on, Bloom," someone on the other side of the arena yells.

The bell rings.

"What the bleedin' hell do you think you're doin'?" Bean mutters, when Karl comes to his corner. "How long do you think you can keep this pace up?"

"Until I beat him," Karl grins, swiping at his nose with a towel.

"Right, at least you've not forgotten that's the object of the exercise," Bean says.

Karl throws the towel back, and turns to face Orli again. The bell rings.

Karl launches himself at Orli, a storm of punches that Orli blocks, a kick that he doesn't, but Orli uses the impact to power a horse-kick that slams Karl to his knees. The referee gestures Orli off.

"Come on," Orli yells at Karl.

Karl, letting the referee count off a few seconds while he catches his breath, grins up at Orli and thrusts back up onto his feet abruptly enough to send the referee skipping out of the way.

\---

  
"Dominic, you have to stop this," John pleads. "I'm not having a fighter killed in my arena."

Dom wretches his gaze from John's face to the ring again. Orli's swaying on his feet, the left side of his face netted with blood, thickening with bruises along his brow-bone and cheek-bone and at the corner of his mouth. He's shouting at Karl, shouting at him to

get up, get up you son of bitch, get up and fight me

and Karl, on one knee, flexes his entire body and surges up again. The crowd is screaming at them

come on, come on

"I can't," Dom breathes. "I can't."

John looks imploringly at Bean, who just stares back, stony faced. John glances up at the referee in the ring, but he's white-faced and shaken looking, and it seems as much as he can do to circle the fighters and watch them do whatever the hell it is they're driven to do.

  
\---

  
"Four, five … "

"Get up!" Karl yells at Orli, "godamnit, get up."

Dom can't tell if the wetness streaking Karl's face is sweat or tears. Orli, his teeth bared, pushes up onto one knee.

" … six, seven … "

Dom digs his fingernails into his palm so hard his own eyes prickle from the pain.

"Please," John says at Dom's left shoulder, his voice strangely thin.

" … eight … "

The crowd murmurs, a ragged, uncertain sound. They want Orli to get up. They want him to stay down.

" … nine … "

Orli unfolds up onto his feet, rolling his right shoulder carefully. The crowd ripples, applause breaking out here and there and then spreading into a suddenly rolling thunder of cheers and shouts. Karl falls back a step, his face crumpling a little as he lifts his fists in front of his face.

John makes a stifled little sound of despair.

Orli takes up his stance again, though his right fist doesn't come any higher than his breastbone. Karl's swaying on his feet; Orli dips his head aside, wiping the gloss of blood off his left cheek and onto his left shoulder.

The referee is white-faced, wide-eyed. He doesn't lift his hand to restart the round; Karl and Orli just read the moment in each other's eyes, and the referee falls back from between them.

They're slower now, every punch and kick a separate decision. Sometimes they manage the block, sometimes they don't. Sometimes they make a semi-conscious decision to just accept the blow instead of expending strength they don't have trying to deflect it. Orli's nine seconds of rest on the canvas gives him the advantage this time; he's got just enough shaking strength left to hoist a messy kick that clips Karl across the face and spins him, drops him to his knees.

The noise of the crowd falls to a confusion of gasps and groans.

The bell rings for the end of the round. Karl lets himself fall forward onto his hands, his head hanging down between his arms. Drops of violent red appear on the canvas under him. Orli folds to his own knees, his gloves hands held like wounded things in his lap.

David has ducked under the ropes, into the ring. Far from sending him back out, the referee throws him a look of pure gratitude and trails behind him as David crouches next to Orli. Orli manages to lift his head as David wipes his face with a towel. David offers him the water bottle, but Orli pushes it away, mumbling something around his mouth-guard.

David glances across at Karl; Bean's on his knees in front of him, wiping dark blood away from Karl's nose. The crowd's almost quiet, just a low unsettled murmuring in the dark beyond the ring.

"For God's sake, Dom," John pleads.

Dom licks at the salt-wet slick on his upper lip, and looks over at Bean. Bean is staring back at him. He nods, just once, and closes his eyes.

Dom turns his head, looking back over his shoulder to where Ian, like most of the spectators, is standing in front of his seat rather than sitting down. Ian is staring up at the ring, his eyes narrowed intently.

Dom lets his fists fall open.

" … Alright."

"Oh thanks be to God," John gasps.

He gestures at the referee, who glances at the judges – every one of them looking haggard and helpless – and steps closer to the fighters.

The crowd ripples, and there's a flurry of camera flashes in the dark.

"This fight is being stopped, in the fourteenth round," the referee calls out, "with the fighters dead tied on points - "

There's a collective gasp and sigh and then people start clapping, loud and clear and steady. The noise builds, people whistling and stamping and yelling, and they're not calling one name or the other, just

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Orli coughs, spits his mouth guard out onto the canvas.

"No - " he croaks, tilting to one side, trying to get on his hands and knees and crawl to where Bean is clearly arguing with Karl.

"Get up," David says quietly but urgently, getting an arm around Orli's shoulders. "Get on your feet."

David more than half lifts him, Orli clutching at him and swaying. Bean's hauling Karl up, too. The referee grabs one of Orli's wrists, and one of Karl's, and swings them skywards.

"I give you – the tied, joint world welterweight champions of MMA," the referee crows. "Karl Urban, and Orlando Bloom."

The crowd goes fucking nuts. Guys are crying and clapping and stamping their feet. The camera flashes are exploding like entire galaxies going supernova. Orli ducks his head slightly, squinting away from the noise and the light.

People are slapping Dom on the shoulder, hugging Astin, John's hand so hard that his jowls quiver.

"Bloom's gonna be a fucking star," someone says into Dom's face.

"Solid gold."

"Incredible fight, fucking incredible."

Dom turns his head. Viggo's on his feet, like everyone else, clapping as hard as he can. He looks fucking wrecked, like he's been crying hard, like he's had his heart broken and he feels better for it.

Ian's standing in the aisle, staring at Dom.

Dom jerks his chin up, forces a smile onto his face.

"Yeah, thanks," he says to someone right in front of him, and only then does he manage to drag his eyes away from Ian. "Thanks, next time we'll fucking bury Urban. Next year we'll be champion, no fucking tied fights, you'll see."

Astin pulls himself loose from the thickening knot of well-wishers and climbs into the ring.

"Get your gloves off, your hands are going to swell," he says in an undertone to Orli, already taking Orli's wrist and picking at the damp-matted laces.

"Get a handshake, get a handshake," someone's calling.

The referee ducks out of the way, stepping aside, and people are nudging Karl and Orli together. They reach for each other, just hands and eyes, and instead of shaking hands they just cling to each other, Orli's head on Karl's shoulder and Karl's head on the curve of Orli's skull.

David looks away from them, looks at Astin smoothing and smoothing the raw leather on the back of Orli's glove with his fingers.

"A'right, come on, yeh've had yer fun," Bean says, scattering the press of people with a wave of his arm. "Astin, take yer man back beyond."

"Orlando," Astin says.

Orli and Karl part, or are parted. They're both stunned with exhaustion, too numb to help or hinder when people drape their robes around them and lead them out of the ring and through the screaming cheering crowd.

\---

"Christ" Astin says under his breath.

Orli reaches up, taking hold of Astin's wrist and guiding his hand away from Orli's face.

"And I didn't win," Orli says.

Ian closes his eyes for a split second, his mouth curling.

"So ... what do you want from me?" Orli says carefully. "You're hardly gonna suggest I threw the fight, are you?"

Ian's smile comes on all the way.

"No, no, that's clearly ... not the case," Ian says, letting his gaze linger over the wreckage of Orli's face. "But ... the fact is, Dominic owes me ten grand - "

" – which conveniently happens to be my half of the fight purse," Orlando finishes.

"There was a side bet," Ian says.

"Well, you can forget that," Orli says. "I've got my half of the prize purse, and shag all else. I part-mortgaged my gran's house to get in this fight, and I'm not mortgaging it the rest of the way, not even for Dom. Forget it."

"I'm not asking you for money," Ian says liquidly.

"Then what are you asking me for? Small words, Mister McKellen, I'm not a smart bloke."

"You're the biggest asset Dom has," Ian says. "Your contract. I'd be willing to write off a much bigger debt than Dom's, in return for control of your career."

Astin shifts sharply, but Orli still has hold of him and pulls him back to center.


End file.
